


Never Take The Light

by nuitbleue



Series: A Lighter Place [1]
Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Feels, Fever Dreams, Fix-It of Sorts, Healing, Hope, Introspection, Nightmares, Recuperation, Romance, Slow Burn, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-08-07 05:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 43,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7702768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuitbleue/pseuds/nuitbleue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My attempt at an alternate ending to Ep. 3x09 in which Ethan does pull the trigger, but not how Vanessa meant him to. He has sworn that she will not die while he lives and he's not willing to give up on that promise. A happier ending for Ethan and Vanessa. This is part 1 of my series named A Lighter Place which is my own version of a continuation of the show post season 3. Rated T so far. I hope you enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey. This is the first fanfiction I’ve written for this fandom plus English is not my first language, but it’s my favourite one. :) I’m meaning to say – there might be minor flaws. The idea of this series is to explore how easily things could have been different had a minor thing been changed in the finale that left me deeply saddened. So this will ultimately have a happy ending, because Vanessa and Ethan never deserved to end up like this. Thank you in advance for comments and constructive criticism! The title of this first part is taken from the beautiful song “Falling” by singer ADRIA.

Never take the light 

1

Consciousness is not enough to drag her up to the surface.  
There is darkness and everything feels heavy. Had someone brought her to the ocean? Is it the shifting of waves she feels, the familiar tugging at her very being?

Minas face appears in her mind.  
Still Mina?, she wonders numbly. Isn’t Mina gone, did she not leave?  
She’s laughing, a little girl still, tiny pale feet dancing through the low water. Not long until she would fall over. But the ocean is silent and the first sound she becomes aware of is not the trusted rushing of cold waves, it is a voice. 

“Stay”, it utters.  
It does not sound like a command, neither like a plea. It takes effort, this single word, she can sense it in the tightness of this voice. Pressed, tense. 

She looks over to where Mina still plays in the water. Did Mina speak to her?  
She does not see her face, only her golden hair, her innocence a visible, almost tangible thing surrounding her body like a halo. How far she had always been from this goodness, this entrancing purity, how immeasurable had this distance ever been. 

The next thing she feels is a jolt of pure, unblemished pain that courses through her being and her instinctive scream is drowned out as she is being pulled underwater. She cannot but let go and float deep into the water’s darkness, soundless and numb.

“Vanessa, stay with me!”

Out of the blue, the sound of this voice fills her ears again and she can hear it through the surface and this time, it is less cold, less detached, this voice.  
She senses the pain in it as she has felt her own pain straining her being. She cannot take on a stranger’s pain as well. Who demands this of her? Isn’t she already full of pain herself?  
Leave me, she wants to utter. Then again, she does not want to be left, not with the darkness of the deep waters surrounding her, pulling at her. 

“Vanessa, please!”

Her name, she finally understands. And this voice, this familiar voice stirs a memory within her. A memory of a dream that is. A fantasy.  
Suddenly, there is no ocean anymore, no dark waves, no unknown depths. Light fills her vision and she realises her eyes must have opened. The sudden flow of light hurts her and a sound must have left her lips she still cannot feel, because there is a movement, swift and soundless and when she looks again, something is hovering above her, shielding her from the brightness. 

“Vanessa”, she hears, a hoarse whisper, trusted warmth seeping through.  
And there he is.

She sees him for the first time again, then, and there is blood on his face, this face that has become a constant element of her dreams, day and night, whenever she loses the well-trained hold on herself.  
She recognises the terrible gash stretching over his cheek. How it must still hurt. Her gaze shifts and she looks into his eyes, the beloved light brown clouded with…something. He should not look at her like this. He had been smiling, in her fantasy. In every single one of all those dreams.

“Ethan.”

She has spoken instinctively and the sound of her own voice seems frail and far away. Her lips, cold and numb still, hardly followed her intention. 

And yet, she sees his reaction in his eyes and hears it in the way his breathing changes and feels it in his touch, softly, hardly perceptible, on her temple. He suppresses something, she knows. The force of his reaction is grander, the feeling behind this careful touch deeper. 

He should not look at her like this. He should be gone by now, off of her path that only ever led to more and more darkness, letting go of the disenfranchised mess that she was, the epitome of all things unique and horrible. 

And still, he is looking at her and when his features slowly become clearer and clearer in front of her eyes, she sees a smile play around the corners of his mouth, tentatively at first, firmer then. 

“I’m here”, she hears him say.  
“I’m not gonna leave you.” His voice still sounds hoarse, his words an echo of a different time he spoke the same words, drenched with emotions his face will not show. Not now. Maybe not ever.

She wants to answer, but her throat feels dry and she is still unable to find her lips. Uttering his name had been an instinct almost akin to breathing, but everything beyond this seems impossible. 

He must observe her struggle with her body, numb and heavy and out of her reach for he moves closer, slightly, without constraining her and when she feels his fingers on the sensitive skin near her temples, tenderly stroking stray strands of her hair, she closes her eyes again, easing into his touch and she feels weightless.

She hears a sound escape from his lips, relief poured into a rough sound that is so utterly him it helps her lips form what the small conscious part of her hopes is a smile.  
Into their strangely intimate light-filled moment of peace breaks another voice, almost violently.

“We must move her now”, someone says and she knows that she has heard this voice before, yet in this very moment it is that of an intruder, a threat to their nearness.  
Instinctively, she wants to hide against him, cling to his arms, his skin, his smell.

Don’t take him away from me, not again.

None of them could even begin to fathom how every fibre of her being craves his very presence, how she longs to only hear his breathing so close to her.

But when she tries to move, her body’s numbness turns to pain in a flash and at once his hands are there, holding her, stopping her movement and thus her pain. His touch sends warmth through her body, calming, soothing. Deeply familiar.

“No”, she hears him answer to whoever spoke, the beloved voice she has listened to in countless dreams, day and night, so low that it resembles more a growl than a human sound.  
More animal than man.  
More than that and you know it.

At the edge of her vision, she sees a different face now, appearing next to Ethan and before the brightness, a face that is much older, harder in a certain way that reminds her of so many times she has been intimidated by it, so many memories of being scrutinised.

How cruel you are. 

“She must be put somewhere she can be properly examined, Mr. Chandler. You need to let the doctors treat her.”

She closes her eyes, strained already by only listening to this voice, a good heart well-hidden, she knows, but so much harshness shielding it.

“I won’t leave her”, she hears her protector reply, tersely and still in that low voice that does not quite sound human. 

A sigh can be heard, though hardly audible and quickly suppressed, before the other man continues, even stricter and more commanding this time.  
“Mr. Chandler, you must…!”

She feels something stirring and his warmth leaves her for a moment.

“Don’t you dare fucking ‘Mr. Chandler’ me!”

It is Ethan’s voice again, but the ferocity in it evidence of his second nature. Rugged breathing, anger and other such wild emotions only barely contained.  
“You, of all people, will not make me leave her!”

She wants to open her eyes again, but a careful attempt immediately confronts her again with the painful brightness around her and for a split-second she is able to make out a small group of people before her and more than anything else she sees Ethan’s tall figure, still so close to her, but facing the older man, his chest heaving with exasperated fury.

Both of these men have left her to her own devices time and time again, but she feels far too much for them, each in a completely different fashion, to hold grudges.  
She feels there is no point in placing the blame. She forgives everything now.  
If only the pain stops and the darkness vanishes. And the all-encompassing feeling of loneliness, of her heart numb and frozen in isolation she would never have chosen for herself.

She wants to move, to get up from where she is lying, and to touch both their hands, to make them understand that none of their differences matter anymore. That they matter. Whatever it is they have done. To her. To the world itself.

But pain and numbness weigh her down simultaneously and she is only so barely holding on to consciousness.  
However she is still present enough to watch a younger man appear like a ghost behind Ethan and the man she thinks is her father. He shoves his small, lithe frame between the two with an air of authority that makes him seem older than he is.

“This is neither the time nor the place for arguments”, she hears him say and his voice matches what she perceives of his demeanour, there is a certain professionality in the way he sounds, court and calm.  
“She must be taken upstairs immediately, we cannot afford to lose any more time. I’ll still gladly watch you rip each other’s head off later.”

This dry humour is familiar.  
And something else is.  
Upstairs.  
Now she knows where she is.  
Grandage Place. The dark, empty, lifeless place. 

She remembers her room in the farthest corner of the house, at the end of the corridor, as if put away to a place where she could easily be forgotten.  
Back then, when she had taken this room as her own, she had been bound, tied down by her guilt, deeply believing that was exactly what she deserved. To be hidden away in the darkest corner, being the catalyst of all the darkness that had fallen upon Mina’s family and her own. 

Naturally, her second father’s view had never differentiated on this particular matter. Thus, the room had been kept as it had been, sparse, just a polite touch above sterile, with the exception of her mirror and the cross. 

A brief vision of herself strikes her now, transfixed upon the old bed, her wrists cold from constantly brushing against the iron bars.

She even remembers what it looked like the morning after Ethan had performed on her what she had come to call an exorcism. The light, the peace she had felt. 

And then she sees the other morning, after he had left, sorrow pulling her under, no horizons, no silver linings upon a deep, dark sea.

She realises she does not want to be in this room, not now, not again. If she can help it, not ever. She must tell them. 

She snaps back to the present to see the two men slightly reluctantly break apart as if shaken from a trance by the younger man’s efficiency and they both turn to face him instead.

“You”, she hears him address only Ethan now in the same authoritative manner, “I must make use of your physical abilities. Keep tight pressure on the wound and carry her upstairs with utmost care.”

“Of course”, Ethan replies, the anger gone from his voice.  
“But please, Victor…” he begins anew and she is finally able to combine the efficient young man’s figure with a name. 

Victor.  
Pale hair and those brilliantly blue eyes with the shadows underneath them.  
The dear doctor. She has missed him. He has been gone from her life for so long. All of them have. Why is he with them as well? Has this been some tea gathering that she just can’t seem to remember?

“I trust your skill with all I have”, she hears Ethan continue in a low voice, as if to keep this from her.  
But of course she overhears it, attuned to the sound of his voice, bound to whatever fragment she gets of him, even just a sound. 

“But I don’t”, Ethan says, hesitantly, “I can’t leave her now.”

With this, his voice seems once again thick and hoarse. It makes her want to reach out and touch him, his rough, calloused hands, to ease the worries that he cannot seem to put to rest. 

In that moment, she sees a change in Victor’s demeanour, something about his strict proficiency seems to soften, ever so slightly, as he puts a hand on Ethan’s shoulder, a surgeon’s hand, a hand she has held within her own on one of the doctor’s darker days.

It is almost strange to her how, even when Victor has to look up to look into Ethan’s eyes now, even when his physical appearance is so much more fragile and small, he still seems older, carrying knowledge and experience around with him that is simultaneously what stands between them and unites them. 

There is a shift in power, almost tangible in the air between the two men, as Victor replies:  
“And I won’t make you, I promise. But I need your promise in return that you let me do the work. Let me help her, Ethan.”

His voice is low as well now and she has to concentrate to understand the words. But the quiet urgency, the empathy in it comes through.

She sees Ethan nod vehemently. “I will”, he says and those words seem so familiar. 

Another dream of hers seeps into her mind, swiftly, a vision in black and white. A church, almost empty. A dress and white lace. Him, in black and white. 

Will this ever happen now?, she wonders with a certain detachment, as if considering a stranger’s life, another one she is to analyse the way she analysed Ethan’s life that first time they had sat across from one another. 

She wants to hear him say these words then, again, but this time in the church that is empty safe for their Grandage place company, their strange assortment of people that were alienated and lonely before they met each other in those unique ways.

“Besides”, Victor’s low voice shakes her out of the vision, “I think we all know that if there is someone she wants to have close to her right now, it is you.”

It seems as if Ethan is motioning to embrace Victor, but he quickly backs away, his professionally distanced manner unbreached once again.

“Now, now. Let us do for her what we can.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vanessa does not want to let go of her protector. Neither does she want to return to the room she fears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all I want to send a heartfelt “thank you!” to every one of you who gave kudos and reviewed and even read this story! It honestly means a lot to me to be able to share my feelings about my favourite show in prose form with you guys! I hope you’ll have fun with this new chapter. :) I hope to get chapter 3 written and posted over the weekend.

The way up the seemingly endless stairs brings fresh pain. 

She clings to Ethan’s arms with what little remains of her strength, wincing faintly with the movement of Ethan’s steps.  
She knows where they are headed and she is dreading the direction.  
Not this room, not again.  
If she could only speak.

They get closer and closer to the door of the room she so desires to forever leave behind and now she puts all force she can gather into her fingers, clawing at Ethan.

Don’t let me go.

He touches her hair now, stroking softly, calming. But she does not give in so easily, not when the threat of him deserting her yet again in a place that means nothing but sorrow to her is hovering about her like a scythe ready to fall. 

“Sh, it’s alright”, Ethan murmurs, halting mid-step.  
She feels a tinge of relief at him not yet taking her where she is always doomed to be. He places the tenderest of kisses on her hair, as if not to hurt her more. 

There is again so much she wants to say in this very moment, so many things she has never told him and loathed herself for keeping from him so many times when she still had the chance for him to hear them. 

Now, with her lips numb and her tongue powerless and her entire body so frail and dependent, she only has her thoughts to resort too and her trembling fingers clawing at him to make him understand.

“Ethan, I do not mean to rush you, but we must advance further quickly.”  
The doctor.

“Mr. Chandler, will you bring her to the bed now.”  
The father.

She is unable to see them right now, but they must be behind or in front of Ethan, urging him to get her into the room.  
Please no. 

Her fingers will not let him go. She will not cease the hold she has on him, as weak as it might be. 

She hears him breathe, hesitate.

“It seems there is no getting her inside of that room now”, the doctor states drily, but with an undertone of compassion that is rare to him, the sympathy that sets him apart from the cold, heartless scientist he prefers to appear as.

“We’ll take mine”, Ethan says and the sound of his voice makes it unmistakably clear there will be no arguments or negotiations with him on this point.  
Again, she feels his fingers stroking her hair, murmuring:  
“So sorry, Vanessa, we’ll have a few more steps to take now.”

She thinks of the room, his room and there are only good things she associates with it.  
Another many of these things she has not told him; like how good, how right his arm had felt on her shoulder when she had lain down in his bed, seeking shelter.  
Shelter both from the otherworldly things beyond the walls of Grandage Place and the terror inside her mind that rages on when she is vulnerable, alone and unprotected. 

Then again, she has never needed to put into words what she felt to make him understand. No, she never needs to.  
But she longs to, so deeply, because he deserves to hear it.

In her mind, she sees him praying again, kneeling down before their Lord. Her bible she had left by his pillow before she had left his room, watching him sleep for tiny, precious moments, his tall figure in sleep younger and without the weight of their worries. 

She sees the one single candle he has left alit for her. Oh, how he has left a light on for her after all that has happened.  
The Wolf of God.  
Oh, how she is enamoured with him and he might never know just how deep her feelings run.

They reach Ethan’s room before she can focus too intently on how much pain the way causes her. 

He lays her down carefully, she knows he wants to spare her as much pain as possible – otherwise he would never have left her all these months ago not knowing how much worse everything would become – nevertheless, the pain is there and it claims her, making her whimper audibly.

She hears movements, shifting, the sound of tools being brought forward.  
Medical equipment, she assumes, recognising the sharp, metallic sounds, the snapping of a doctor’s case. 

She hears the door close. But still she feels her hand enclosed by his warm fingers. Protected.

For a second she manages to open her eyes although her lids feel already far too heavy. In the corner of her eye she sees the doctor prepare a syringe and she swallows hard, suppressing the urge to scream even though she knows she wouldn’t possibly be able to make a sound. 

He gives her hand a slight squeeze and she focuses on him instead, looking up into his eyes. 

It is a random thought, she knows, but he truly is beautiful. She registers numbly that she misses his long hair though, this wonderfully outward sign of the wild being, the ferocity he keeps at bay. The wildness she adores him for.

“Ethan”, she breathes, strained, but all the more determined to go through with her attempt at speaking.

His glance searches her face before it settles on her eyes. There is such softness in his eyes now.

“I’m not gonna leave you, you know that. Never again, Vanessa.”

The doctor casts a glance sideways, critically, utterly back in his professionally detached manner.

“You may stay and hold her hand, but do not wear her out. A sickbed is not a place for promises.”

She sees Ethan swallow and nod grudgingly. The doctor is the authority now, this has been established time and time again. 

But she feels this rule does not apply to her, not when she is the one between all states.

“Ethan”, she starts anew and his eyes seem to light up faintly once again, “I….”

She longs to say the words. Three words she has never uttered. Now, before it may be too late.

She feels him taking her hand in both his hands now, enveloping it without pressure. 

“You’re safe, Vanessa.”

She wants to smile.

And in that very moment, she feels the tip of the syringe plunge into her skin near her other hand and it takes seconds before everything turns to black.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final Events of 3x09 rewritten. How Vanessa got back to Grandage Place in the state she is in. Written from Ethan's point of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I’m sincerely sorry! This took so much longer than expected. I knew this chapter would be tough to write and then private stuff got in between as well…Anyway, I hope you haven’t lost your patience and interest in this story of mine and I hope you enjoy the newest chapter.  
> This was very emotional to write and having done it is relieving as much as it is cathartic.  
> This figures as the “before”-Chapter to chapter 1 and it is seen from Ethan’s point of view. My rewrite of the final events in 3x09. Mr. Logan, may I kindly remind you that all our pain could have been averted. In my imagination anyway.  
> Thank you in advance for reading & reviewing! :)

3

“We have to get out of here.”

And the look in her eyes. So sad. Forlorn. It had robbed his body of its strength in an instant. 

There was a time when he had seen the same look in her eyes, but had known that he just had to reassure her he’d be there. That he’d fight alongside her. That they’d be stronger together.

You will not surrender while I live.

When he closed his eyes, he could still feel his hands on her shoulders, that day in the forest, where everything had been colour- and lifeless, drenched of any hope they had had so much of in former times. That day he had desired to bring the light back to her eyes, those beautiful eyes that had always harboured what he would call hope for him. 

And then, as they were standing face-to-face in that deserted slaughterhouse he knew that he should never have left her. 

No. When he was being honest with himself, he had known that since the day he had been put in that cage. 

But as he was looking at her, surrounded by these candles and their shadows, the finality of what he had done hit him and it hit him with more violence than any dark creature ever could.

“Let it end.”

“No.”

It was rather the beast than the man, then. The defiance he felt was so overwhelming it made him tremble. 

She looked at him like she did not comprehend. Like she was almost surprised. 

How could it possibly take her by surprise that he was not willing to do as she had said?

“No”, he repeated, louder this time.

His hands were on her shoulders then. So small, so pale. Casting even a futile look at them made him ache almost physically.

“This is not what we fought for.”

He had meant these words to sound imploring, but the tinge of fear in them was audible even for himself. 

He watched as her gaze altered slightly and he could not quite decide whether it was anger or sadness he now saw gleaming within the depth of this familiar, this oh so beloved aquamarine.

“How do you presume to know what I have fought for?”

Ethan closed his eyes for a second at the sheer pain that drenched this question. He suppressed his tears. 

Had it been him, the one who had promised to save her, who had brought her to this? Had it been him who had let all this happen? Who had practically led her to this terrible place?

When he opened his eyes again, the beloved aquamarine was clouded with tears.

“Can you imagine what it was like? Being without everyone. Being without you.”

Her words were hardly more than a whisper, but she was so close. 

He wished he could simply take her hand or draw her into her arms, embracing her like he only ever once had. 

It was a selfish wish, he knew and the guilt it brought hit him almost physically. Comfort would never again be as easily achieved. There was no stroking on her hair, her small, fragile shoulders now. No careful kisses, no clever words.

And it was all on him. He had let them come to this, he had driven them up to the edge and the only thing left for him to do was to not let her fall down into the iciest of waters.

He saw her swallow hard, before she spoke next.

“Even him”, she continued, her voice strained, robbed of all its strength, “even the darkest of creatures was closer to me than you.”

Ethan felt like he was being stabbed right in the heart, the blade of the knife dragged on through his body and left it with sharp, burning pain. He even felt the animal inside him writhe with it, grieving over the state its beloved was in and aimlessly and powerlessly raging against the most horrible of men.

If only man he’d be.

“I’m so sorry”, he uttered and his voice sounded thick and hoarse and clumsy in his own ears. 

“You need not be, Ethan”, she replied and with that she raised her hand, ever so softly touching his wounded cheek. 

Her touch sent shivers through his body that only seemed to worsen his pain as they reminded him of that fateful day so long ago when he made the decision he ought never to have made. 

“Never think of me with guilt clouding your heart. I was selfish to claim it like it was mine.”

“It is yours. It has been yours all along!” he protested beseechingly and finally the defiance was back, the anger of the pained man and animal.

For the duration of a second he saw something in her glance, something seemed to set her eyes agleam and he instantly recognised that it was hope. Her determined, impenetrable exterior was restored in the blink of an eye.

“Then let it end, Ethan.”

His anger at these words was almost consuming him. 

In a flash, a memory filled his mind, a memory at her standing opposite him just so, all this time ago in her room at Grandage Place.  
Pull the trigger. Do it.

Her words full of desperation combined with the look she wore on her face at that moment in the slaughterhouse drove him wild.

He grabbed her shoulders before there was time to reconsider.

“I will not kill you, Vanessa!”, he yelled and now he felt the tears hot on his cheeks and it was all the man now, it was all Ethan Chandler, no mystical, supernatural creature, no beast. It was only the exasperated yell of a man who wanted nothing but to save the woman he loved.

He felt her trembling underneath his grasp and her eyes were filled with nothing but sorrow.

“Do I not deserve to be killed?” she whispered, “for all the darkness I brought, for all the pain I have caused? Should not you be the first to speak of all my monstrosity? Have you not seen the worst of me?”

Her desperate questions, the hopelessness these words withheld pained him. 

She should never have felt like this. He should have told her all this time ago what she meant to him. 

Now trembling himself, he held her closer, tenderly, as though she might break for how fragile she was. 

“And all the good, Vanessa. I know how strong you are. Death is the least of all you deserve. There is something”, he felt himself suppressing something akin to a sob and swallowed hard before he continued, “I told you once, I bet you remember. In that damn forest. I told you you would not die while I am here. That you would not surrender while I lived.”

He looked into her eyes and there was nothing but stubborn determination in his voice as he continued.

“And I’m not giving up on that. You’ll have to learn to live with that.”

She only looked at him and for the first time since they had went to stand opposite each other in this horrid slaughterhouse, she completely, utterly looked like Vanessa to him. 

The Vanessa Ives he had come to know and love beyond what she could possibly fathom.  
The Vanessa Ives who had faced the devil himself and never given up.  
She was so much stronger than him and had been all along.

In that moment, all pallid ghostliness had vanished from her appearance and only the woman remained, a fragile, strong, sensitive, strong-willed soul with so much left to experience.

He would be there to see her do it. If she let him.

If she told him to leave, he would. If she told him to go and finish himself off, he would. 

There was only one thing she could never, ever demand of him – to give her up and make her die.

“Ethan”, she began, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

He stopped her before she could think of a sentence.  
His voice was low and urgent as he spoke.

“There’s something we’ll do. I hate myself for doing it and you may do the same for the rest of your life, but it’s the only way out I’d know.”

He let go of her shoulders and reached for his weapon.

When he looked back at her, he saw her glance, questioning like he had come to know it.

“There has to be blood to make it believable. The bastard still might hear your heartbeat or something, but there’s a try. I don’t know any other way we’ll both get out of here. Do you trust me, Vanessa?”

Her gaze wandered over his face, slowly, as though she was searching for one last reason not to.

Then she nodded.

“I do. I always have”, she whispered.

Relief washed over him as he took in her words and he too nodded, as if to encourage himself to follow through with what small of a plan he had come up with.

He raised the gun and aimed at her left arm, avoiding the cold metal to touch her delicate, bare skin.

He sought her eyes for protest, a last attempt to hold him back. But instead, he saw her nod yet again and with a deep exhale, he fired.

His trembling fingers hastily smeared the blood all over her upper body to make it look like she was more severely wounded than she truly was. But her body grew fainter and colder in his arms and he knew he had to hurry.

As he went to stand on the plateau of the old building with her blood-stained and horribly pale body on his arms, there was a moment. 

He looked down into the faces of all their friends and allies. And then, he felt the creature’s glance on him and Vanessa’s bloody body.

There was a second during which Ethan suspected that his plan had backfired in its entirety. That all was lost. 

But her heartbeat grew slower by the minute and he prayed to the heavens above that it would be low enough to keep up the image, the pretense. 

And then, the creature vanished.

And once again, Ethan felt relief, hot and urgently washing over his body just as he felt Vanessa’s body grow colder quicker and quicker.

“Help!” he yelled down to the others, “please help me!”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There had been relief at first, then hurry, then rush.

Grandage Place was closest and they wanted by all means to avoid any hospitals. 

Ethan would not let go off Vanessa until his little exchange with the doctor.

Now, all he could do was hold Vanessa’s cold hand and put his trust into the surgeon’s proficient hands.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fading in and out of consciousness, syringes and nightmares await Vanessa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I realise this has taken quite long again, but I do hope you enjoy the following chapter 4. At least it’s quite long as a recompense for the long delay. ;)  
> Just to warn you, this story is progressing rather slow and lingering, meandering if you will, so if you tend to rather be one for quick developments – I will not rush this, for I enjoy reveling in every sensation, trying to get deeply into the feeling. Thank you for reading! Comments are always sheer joy! :)

4 

It is the absence of everything.

Nothing is present, all is distant. 

If there is one thing she feels, it is tiredness. The kind of tiredness that weighs heavily on mind and body, the kind that seeps deeply into the bones and down to the core. Like a seashell sinking down to the ocean floor.

Even if she were conscious enough to want to get a hold on anything, her surroundings, the people with her, the time of day even, she is still too far away from everything.

There is no strength within her body now and whenever she has the notion of some of that tiredness fading, losing the relentless grasp on her, there is a tinge of nausea that approaches her before any orientation, before she can gather any bearings and the fear of the pain she instinctively senses coming is enough to send her back down and further, further down, sinking deeper.

There are voices then. They must be shouting or she would not be able to hear them so clearly.

“Vanessa, stay here, please!”

“Let me to get to her, quickly or I’ll send you out, Mr. Chandler!”

She feels movement around her and for the first time she wonders why they are so loud, so upset. Not much time can have passed, what would move them so?

She cannot leave them to their own devices, she cannot leave them alone when they are so upset, the urge to be with them, to help them arises within and she forces herself back to the surface, gripping tightly onto the borders of what she feels. Even though she knows it will bring pain.

“Why has she still not woken up, doctor?” 

It is the father’s voice now. How did he get there too?

“Pardon me, Sir Malcolm, but actions now, questions later. In short: She has lost a lot of blood. Before and after the shot wounded her.”

There is a brief pause and she hears a door close with a sound that rings in her ears. There is so much noise. 

“But Victor, tell me she’s not…she’s not…!”

Ethan. 

The pained sound of his voice reminds her of her will to break through the surface. 

She starts gripping again, she imagines her hands clawing at the textile around her, but there is still so little strength.

“No, Ethan”, she hears the logically detached voice of the doctor reply with stern determination. 

“She is still human and she is still breathing. How does her hand feel?”

She knows without seeing that he is asking Ethan this to distract him, to keep his mind off his despair. The doctor does not need to know this. He needs Ethan to stay calm.

“Cold”, Ethan answers, strained. 

There are different sounds now, the metallic sounds of medical tools again, the ones she knows so well. The doctor is preparing something, only halfway concentrated on Ethan’s distress.

“There you have it. Blood loss”, comes his dry reply.

“What can I do? Tell me, Victor!”

There is something in the deep, low timbre of Ethan’s voice that she has only ever heard twice before; each of the times she had made him aim a gun at her.   
She recognises instantly that it is fear.

“Should she wake, keep her still.”

The sound of a fingernail tipping against the glass of a syringe. 

She is too distant from everything to feel repulsed or afraid. 

Again? Must this be? she simply wonders.   
Is this not about her?   
If there is anything she wants, it is to continue sleeping if that is what it is. There will be no need to keep her controlled. She is too far away to react against the doctor’s instruments.

But she feels Ethan’s touch clearly now and it is so light, so tender that she thinks she is only imagining it. 

The sound of her own breathing grows louder in her own ears. 

She hears herself breathe for the first time since…when has it all started? When has the world around her begun to tilt, to slip sideways?

A few audible breaths follow until there finally is light. She sees. 

From where she is lying, she looks up at Ethan’s face, immediately into the warm brown of his eyes.

What she finds there is an imprint of the fear she has heard in his words. And so many answers to questions she never dared to ask.

Will all be broken, will all be gone if she tells him how deeply she feels for him? 

Will he leave her yet again, leave her to the dark figure she has always been? 

Will he be scared and frightened away, sent to find another, another who would never cause him pain and only bring him bliss, the joyous happiness of being alike, being normal, being human, one of the ordinary, one of those whose stories she has grown up with and been raised on like any other girl although she has never been alike them in any other but her sensitivity, the way she was so easily bruised, so easily hurt by one whom she loved?

She knows that he is more than simply human, more than a man like those she has come to know, yet his darkness seems so much easier overcome. 

It would never be enough to frighten her, to scare her away from him. 

The certainty of this is the same certainty wherewith she knows her name, her body, her sensitivities. 

They have been the only ones to handle each other with grace and not violence, with empathy and not terror.

Yet she would never blame him for leaving her behind, for choosing another. 

He is not to blame for her feeling, for her having chosen him. She had chosen to love him and no other without ever remembering when she had made her choice. 

When she had had him sit across her in Sir Malcolm’s library? 

When she had watched him shoot meaninglessly in order to entertain a cheering crowd that had lost the thrill in their own lives? They live for a different kind of thrill.

Or had it been when had taken her hand in his own, when she had been drenched in cold sweat, a broken little thing stripped of all its allure, scratching at her pallid skin, longing to open those veins that thrummed with another’s power underneath her skin?

No one has taken my hand so sweetly for many years.

He was not responsible for her having chosen him and not another, for her having placed herself in his hands, for having committed to him her heart in its entirety.

What would she do with all the love she feels for him if he declines it? 

What will she do with her heart that has been handed out, bestowed to one who would be overwhelmed with it for all the right reasons? 

She would never be able to place it back in her chest.  
She could give it to their Lord, then, should he take it with all the darkness she has given way to. 

Would He forgive? 

Ethan believes so, does he not? 

She knows he is hesitant, reluctant to admit to it, but he does believe in forgiveness, in the good in everyone. That there can be absolution. Even in her case. 

She thinks she can even see it in his glance now, as he is looking down on her from somewhere above. 

She remembers that they are in his room and feels her back relaxing against – cushions? She cannot see anything but him, the face of the man she loves without limitations. 

Still there is this gash stretching across the tanned skin of his cheek. 

Does the doctor keep his pain away, too? With the syringes click-clacking or other medication?

She breathes in and out and his very presence so close to her appears to lift most of the weight off her that has been lasting on her, pulling her under and for the moment, she stops sinking deeper, further.

“Ethan”, she mumbles, her voice that of a stranger, a weak imitation of what she knows it as and yet more than a whisper.

The relief this faint attempt at speaking earns her seems to set his eyes alight as it is visibly taking over his worried features. 

“It’s alright, ‘Nessa, I’m here”, he answers and his low voice rumbles soothingly through her body and again, he feels so familiar, so close to her battered, bruised core.

Trust, she has often thought, is much more than the knowledge of harmlessness, more than the certainty that one particular person will do you no harm. 

Trusting someone with a secret and trusting someone with one’s heart to her appear to be two completely different things that all too frequently get merged into one another as though they meant the same. 

That a secret like hers is safe with someone is one thing; that she feels her heart and soul are safe with that someone entirely another.

Love is a grand word for it implicates so much and stands for nothing if there is no history accounting for why it even exists. 

She knows as she looks up into those familiar brown eyes of his while the relief of him seeing her still somewhat close to life spreads across his features that have etched themselves in her every daydream, her every happy fantasy, that if that is what trusting him with her heart and soul means, she loves him.

“Miss Ives, can you hear me?” she hears the doctor ask then. Has he even spoken?

“Do you understand my words? I asked what you feel.”

She tries to concentrate as the doctor’s face appears at the edge of her vision, slightly blurred though and not as clear as Ethan’s. Sky-blue clear eyes.

What does she feel?

She realises now that sunlight, bright afternoon sunlight breaks its way through the half-closed shutters, a golden sun, the kind of sun she remembers from when she was a little girl. 

Ethan must know these gloriously golden rays. 

She remembers that she has never been to America, but she can imagine him there, under this golden sun, crossing a field bared by the autumn or tending to horses with the kindness of his that matches no other. 

And there is another thing she suddenly understands; it is that although the sun is shining, throwing bright golden rays through Ethan’s room and across the bed, the cream white cushions and blankets, she does not feel any warmth. 

Before she had come to her senses, she would not have noticed, but now she longs to hide away deep down in the warmth of her bedsheets and instinctively begins to shudder.

“I understand you are cold, Miss Ives”, the doctor notes as Ethan carefully pulls her blanket up a little further. She must only have been halfway covered by it before, her arms and upper body exposed to the cold. 

Her left arm feels so far away from her, but she avoids turning her head to catch a glance at it.

Instead, she feels herself reply to the doctor with a nod of her head and with a rush there is another feeling. 

The nausea she remembers from before returns with a flash and she feels bile rise within her throat, threatening her like a bad memory. 

Even now she feels humiliation as she struggles to fight the sudden and all the more violent impulse to retch.

She sees Ethan quickly get up from her bedside to get something and with the help of simple willpower she manages to control herself until he has it.

Neither of the men she knows so well leave or awkwardly turn away.

“This was supposed to be better by now”, she hears the doctor mumble.

So this has happened before, she gathers detachedly.

“What will help?” Ethan asks and keeps his voice down.

“Another one. But this is the last of those, she has had several already. This will do.”

“Hope or knowledge?” There is no edge to Ethan’s voice, only the need for reassurance.

“This will do, Ethan”, comes the stoic reply.

Again, the metallic sound of his fingernail tipping against the glass body of the syringe.

Victor’s face appears before her eyes now, closer. 

“I am sorry, Miss Ives, for, again, this will hurt a bit. Now that you are conscious, there might be pain.” There is true empathy in his professional words and that tiny, apologetic smile in one corner of his pale lips.

She manages to numbly look down her right arm as the doctor pulls back the blanket so her skin in the pale hollow between her upper and lower arm is exposed to him again. 

She watches as he presses the vein, adjusts the syringe.

“Pain purifies”, she hears herself utter without any particular emotion, as if to appease the doctor’s worries, the words tumbling from her lips, an impulse.

She cannot remember who has told her this, but there it is, buried so deeply within her that it only comes out now, when inside is outside and within is out there.

As the tip of the needle enters her skin again, indeed there is pain, but she does not pay attention to it for in that moment, she feels Ethan’s touch again, brushing ever so lightly against the fingers of her right hand and she instinctively grasps it, clinging to his warm skin with her remaining force, never to let go.

 

There is a dream next. 

She knows it is a dream for she is not who she has been.

Something is different. She knows it although what it is she doesn’t.

There is a void, a wide open space with darkness lurking around its edges. A large dinner table like those she had grown up with amidst the darkness. 

Upon her arrival, she is being scrutinised. 

She knows each of the people sitting around the massive wooden banquet table. 

First she sees Sir Malcolm, then the doctor, then Dorian. 

She feels nothing as her gaze slowly wanders over their faces. 

Every pair of eyes is focused entirely on her which provokes cool shivers running, crawling, creeping down her spine the longer the moment drags on.

More seats are filled and as she looks closer, she recognises – Sembene, Gladys, Peter, Mina and she feels her entire body grow cold in a matter of seconds. Even her mother. Her father, the first one, the official one.

Are they not…?

“Have a seat, Vanessa. Sit among us as though you were one of us.”

Sir Malcolm is the first to address her. 

He smiles. It is one of his hard smiles that mean no kindness. The ones she has learned to fear as a girl. 

With the shivers still creeping down her spine and an odd feeling in her stomach she obeys, taking her seat at the top of the large table that seems to have no end.

All eyes stare at her from all sides. 

She cannot take looking back at them for longer than a second, so she looks down at the wooden surface of the table before her where there are no table sets, no dishes. Only glasses are there, one for every one of them. 

They are all filled with crimson coloured fluid. Wine? she wonders.

In the corner of her right eye, she watches Mina as she takes the glass before her in her pale fingers that shine white in the half-light, the sharp contrasts between darkness and light. 

She gasps audibly as Mina turns her glass upside down and with horror she watches the fluid spilling all over Mina’s place at the table, staining Mina’s white dress, running all over her skin and the wood of the table. The fluid oozes languidly, lazily.

“No, Vanessa. No wine is drunk here. It is only blood, you see. Do not fear what you know so well.”

Mina’s voice sounds drenched of all humanity, metallic and yet horribly spiteful. It makes Vanessa’s stomach churn.

“Have we not shown you blood?” her first father joins in, Gordon, the one who Vanessa has never felt anything but polite familiarity for. 

“Have you not seen everything? In our house, in our gardens?” asks Gladys, her eyes full of disdain. “How could no one see you were his? With all the sorrow you brought upon us, you showed your heritage.”

Vanessa casts her glance back down, waiting for everything to be over, for all of them to be gone. 

“And you enjoyed it, did you not?”, she hears Dorian’s voice ask, lasciviously and she looks back up to find him sizing her up with a sly little grin.

“Have you not cut my chest and – licked the blood off my heated skin?”

“Forbidden desires – were you not always drawn to them like a moth to the flame?” Mina asks, framing her face with her bloodied hands.

“Oh, how I wanted to save you. How I tried…” her mother Claire’s eyes are filled with tears as she speaks those words.

Vanessa’s head spins with all the voices, all the accusations and questions. She longs to escape, to flee, but her feet seem rooted where they are and her hands lie on the surface of the table as though they were made of stone, numb and cold.

Suddenly, she sees Sir Malcolm look at her with concern in his light eyes.

“We make it hard on you, do we not? I guess we always have.”

There is a pause and their eyes meet. A breath, shared almost, before he continues.

“Yet for all that we have done to you, for all the pain we’ve caused you, for all the more ostracised, disenfranchised we made you, you could never bring yourself to hate us. You only ever hated yourself. Loathed yourself even. For all you think you did.”

Vanessa feels tears on her cheeks and soon they spill all over her chest, the dress she wears she cannot see and the wooden surface before her. They drip down her arms to her fingertips.

The doctor is suddenly looking at her as well, pale as ever. His voice is calm and low as he speaks.

“You simply never stopped loving us for the little good that was in us. Does that make you the worst of all of us? Or the only one truly worth saving?”

Vanessa swallows and some of her tears leave.

“Why did you not just hate us?”, asks Mina.

“Me for destroying your family?”  
Sir Malcolm.

“Me for bringing out the worst in you you thought you had banished long ago?”  
Dorian Grey.

“Would it not have been so much easier?”

It is a darker voice and it comes from behind her, whispering in her ear. Dracula.

No. Not him!

Vanessa closes her eyes and suppresses the violent urge to tremble with every limb in her body. She will not show her fear, not now. 

“No”, she utters with her voice so small, so frail, so weak.

“Hatred is for those who do not seek to live.”

Now he laughs the way she knows so well from all her other altercations with him. Demolishing.

“And you do? Do not attempt to tell me lies, Vanessa. I see through them for I know you far too well.”

He draws out every single word now, relishing the sound of his own voice.

“You wanted to die from the moment you saw sin. The moment you saw what could be done. To you, to everyone. In the end, it made you an epitome of sin yourself. You became what you feared. And loathed yourself, did you not? So much loathing, so much hatred all for yourself?”

Vanessa bites back a scream and presses her eyes shut. Her breathing is ragged now, strained with pent-up dread and fear.

“You do not truly believe I ever surrendered to you? All those years of pleasure turning into pain, those years of fighting my very body. You honestly believed I would forsake all my battles so you could bite me and fuck me and drag me into the abyss alongside your wretched black spot of a soul?”

There is a moment without anything before words appear from within the dark behind her.

“But you let me.”

Vanessa opens her eyes now.

“I did no such thing. I let him come. I tricked you. I waited. I knew he would find me. He would find what was left of me.”

Her head sinks down onto the table covered in her tears and she thinks she can hear her heartbeat through the wood. So quick. 

“And if it had to be over, it would be him. He would do it. He and no other.”

A realisation hits her and her body grows cold all over again. 

Her heart drops to her knees and she struggles to her feet, hastily letting her gaze search all the faces of those sitting around the massive table.

“Where is he? Why is he not here?”

“Yes, where is he?” retorts Dracula from somewhere behind and laughs another dreadful laughter.

“Where is your protector when you need him?”

He yells this question and Vanessa begins to shake. Her feet seem so weak now, carrying nothing anymore.

“He left you. He deserted you. He threw your desperate little heart right back at you.”

Vanessa’s breathing grows even quicker as she listens to those horrible words, her eyes searching frantically for the one person who is missing at this table.

The one.

The one.

“And yet!” It is everybody’s voices conjoined now, stating it.

“Yet you need him. Yet you love him.”

The table seems shrunken now, every one of the people coming closer, closing in on her, while Vanessa keeps searching for him, the one, the protector, the lupus dei and cannot find him.

The presence of all these people and the realisation that she does not find him are enough to drive the last remaining sense out of her.

And Vanessa screams.

 

The scream dies out on her cracked, dry lips and her lids fly open and she gasps for air and pants frantically, her heart still racing. 

Her skin seems to be set aflame, there is heat everywhere and already she struggles against the bedsheets, so much heat and such a hastily beating heart with so small a body to carry it.

Her vision is blurred and she sees faces, the same two as before while she breathes heavily, focused on her racing heart and the heat that is taking over her.

“She’s highly feverish”, she hears the doctor utter. And for once, there is no professional detachment in his voice as he calls out orders.

“Get water, Ethan, now! And textile, anything you find! Quick!”

On the edge of her vision, she sees Ethan leave, barely suppressed panic visibly spread across his face as he practically runs out of the room.

Immediately she feels her hand reaching out for him before it is carefully put back on the mattress by the doctor. His touch is so cold against her hot skin.

She must have closed her eyes for when she looks again, Ethan is there and both men pull the blanket from her legs with quick, efficient hands, uncovering her body that still feels unbearably hot.

“Now, drench the pieces of cloth with cold water and wrap them around her calves, so. Let us put some more textile underneath her legs so the mattress stays dry.”

The doctor’s voice is low and she hardly listens nor does she feel the men’s touch on her skin, the heat has taken over all her other senses. 

“You needn’t be so gentle, Ethan. She will hardly care right now. We need to lower her fever as fast as we can.”

“Another fever dream like this…it’s…horrible” she hears Ethan mumble as she feels the pieces of damp cloth being adjusted to her legs.

Another?

At first she feels nothing other than the heat on the skin at her legs, but slowly, very slowly, she starts believing that the textile is something akin to cold. 

It takes so long. 

Her head falls back onto the cushions, her hair a tangled, stringy mess. 

Her eyelids shut and as the fever ever so slowly begins to lower, she reaches out again, blindly and her right hand finds Ethan’s again.

“Please”, she breathes, hardly having the voice to speak, “please don’t leave.”

She hears his breathing. Such a beloved sound, even now. All the more now. 

His scent, of the wilderness, the woods, the dust of a foreign earth is the only one she can bare now. She believes to even smell the sun on him, such a lovely, light-filled scent.

“I won’t. Never again, Vanessa. I promise.” 

She feels his fingers tenderly pull her messy, sweat-covered hair to one side of the cushion so her neck is less hot. 

He has spoken in a soft, low voice, but the determination in those words is almost a visible, tangible thing and it would make her smile had the exhaustion not the best of her now and she feels herself drifting away yet again, dreading the world inside her head, but still feeling his hand safely around hers.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The men at Grandage Place contemplate questions of health, guilt and sentiment. Darkness tries to keep its hold on Vanessa through her dreams, but she resists. And wakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I am finally back with chapter 5 which has taken much more time than I thought which I blame entirely on tiresome bureaucratic stuff, PMS and the weird men in my life. Happy reading now and heartfelt thanks in advance for every read and comment! They are the flowers in the vase! :)

5

When his patient has safely sunk back into her shapeless state between sleep and unconsciousness, Doctor Victor Frankenstein leans back in his chair.  
He hears Ethan’s sharp intake of breath next to him, but does not react to it until…

“Is there anything I can do?”

The tone of this well-known voice bewilders him and he turns slightly to look at the man beside him. 

He thinks he has heard something in this grave, low voice that he has only ever once heard in it before – helplessness. 

He studies Ethan’s face for a moment, paler than usual despite the tan he must have acquired during his recent time in America Victor has yet only briefly heard of. 

He knows that Ethan has left Miss Ives and he has been able to gather as many pieces of information about the circumstances to fathom the reason for his departure.  
He knows by now that there was a death sentence hovering above Mister Chandler’s fate. 

And he all too precisely remembers the way Miss Ives has looked at him so many times when she must have thought no one else had seen. 

His disappearance has caused her more pain than any shot wound could. 

Victor does not quite know what makes him so sure of this, but having spent as much time with both of them and individually as he has, he puts these pieces together akin to the way he comes up with a diagnosis after examining the symptoms. 

And now, this ever forceful, ever tough and ever brave American who seemed to know neither fear nor despair, the man who has always been the stronger one sits next to him and all Victor reads upon his exhausted, worried features is guilt.

“It is not your fault”, he finally answers Ethan’s rather powerless question in a low, calm tone, „you should cease blaming yourself.”

Ethan swallows hard.

“But it’s me who pulled the trigger.”

Victor looks at him.

“I am not speaking of the shot wound, Ethan.”

Ethan’s brown eyes meet Victor’s gaze with visible hesitation. At first it seems like he is going to remain silent, searching for a reply and not finding one until the words almost burst out of him in a pressed, tense whisper.

“It’s all on me, don’t you understand? I let all this happen, I brought her to this. Her, of all people, the woman I…”

Deeply pained, he shuts his eyes for a moment and Victor knows he struggles with himself trying to suppress tears. 

After a moment of hesitation, Victor reaches out and lays a hand on Ethan’s shoulder, lightly, causing the other man to reopen his eyes and look back at him.

“Guilt is the cruelest of masters for we lay it on ourselves and carry it around with us, Ethan. But your guilt is of no help to her.”

After a few wordless seconds, Ethan nods hardly visibly and without conviction. 

“If you feel for her the way we all think you do, you can help her in a different way”, Victor says then and he watches some of the pain in Ethan’s expression turn to confusion.

“I don’t think I know what you’re saying”, Ethan replies.

“In order to fully recuperate, Miss Ives does not only need oxygen and water, vitamins and meds. She needs something worth coming back to. And I presume we all know her well enough to know this to be more important to her than anything else.”

He sees Ethan nod once more, more vehemently this time and feels his hand on his shoulder, a firmer, stronger touch than his own. 

Their silence is comfortable and lasts for minutes before Victor gets up and walks towards the door of Ethan’s room that is now his patient’s.

“Victor”, he hears Ethan say and turns once more in his direction. The look upon the American’s face is serious and focused despite all exhaustion.

“Do you know why I left? Why I left her?” His voice is low as he speaks and yet Victor hears every word across their little distance. 

Victor hesitates, then nods slightly.

“You spared her the sight of you hung on a rope amidst a cheering crowd.”

He sees Ethan turn his head and look down upon Miss Ives’ body, small and fragile in the white linen of her nightgown, her breathing low and hardly visible in her state of wandering between unconsciousness and sleep.

Victor thinks he observes something in this glance that he has never seen in Mister Chandler’s eyes before. Before he dares to put a name on it, he hears his voice again, in the same low and grave tone it had before.

“Sembene told me something about her, you know. He said she takes your pain and makes it her own.”

Ethan’s hand wrapped around Vanessa’s moves slightly, lets go of its tight touch only to stroke the pale skin there with a tenderness that seems hardly possible for a man of as much strength. 

Victor watches as Ethan’s expression changes as though his mind travels back to a memory, a moment in their past, maybe the exact moment they had parted all this time ago. 

“There has been so much pain in her life”, Ethan continues then and there is a softness in his low voice that matches his expression, “I thought it selfish to give her mine. Had I just considered that my decision would only make it worse, that it would only lead us both to…I never meant to do this to her.”

Ethan closes his eyes again and Victor knows that the guilt is back, haunting him.

“You love her.”

The words escape Victor’s lips before he is able to stop them. It is a statement, not a question; a diagnosis, not a thesis.

There is a pause and Victor almost regrets his maybe much too honest remark. However, just as he even considers leaving the room without another misfit word, Ethan looks up at him again and the guilt that has clouded his expression has vanished.

“I do.”

The exact same wording Vanessa had used all this time ago. He grips her hand, seeking to spread warmth over her cold skin. 

Only absentmindedly does he register the young doctor leave the room without another sound.

 

Somewhere in the timeless and colourless vacuum between night and morning Victor enters the parlour with a barely audible sigh before taking a seat on one of the old leather benches he has grown accustomed to with all the previous times he has been in this old manor. 

He rubs his hands across his face once, as though brushing away the exhaustion, the strenuous activity every single one of their extraordinary assortment of estranged individuals has wordlessly assigned him to - the complicated act of keeping the woman of the house alive.

“How is she?”

Victor is rather abruptly shaken out of his momentary daze and looks over and directly into the light grey eyes of Sir Malcolm. 

Clearly he reads the worry in them, never verbally expressed and always kept within, a capacity Victor had witnessed with all too many husbands and fathers and brothers after many years of practice. 

The harder men, the alert ones, the survivors. 

He knows their view upon matters of the heart all too intimately. 

Openly expressed emotions are for the weak, the women, the children, the theatrical folk and the artists who regularly and methodically shut off all their senses in order to produce incomprehensible work hardly worth of its name, pieces and texts and sketches no other souls but theirs will ever connect to. 

Victor clears his throat and holds Sir Malcolm’s gaze.

“She has shown strong reactions against the medication. But then we know that from her, do we not. Whether it is the supernatural force, possession, reincarnation whatsoever within her or simply her own body, she tends to react strongly to outer influences.”

He takes a moment to let these words sink in before he continues. 

“Miss Ives is, with all the strength we know her for, the most sensitive person I have ever treated. So I am not going to predict anything if that is what you had in mind. However, we managed to lower her fever and I can safely say that when all is restored, she will be fine again. Apart from the scar that will remain where the wound was, obviously.”

A long silence follows. 

Just as Victor begins to feel uncomfortable under the constant observation and considers leaving, he hears a sound coming, slipping from the older man’s mouth and his stern expression falters.

Before Victor fully understands what is happening, he feels the stoic Sir Malcolm’s arms around him in a firm embrace. It takes mere seconds before he breaks away again, holding on to Victor’s shoulder at an arm’s length away from him.

“Thank you, doctor! She will be alright, fine then, that is the only thing of any importance.”

Are there even tears in the explorer’s eyes?

“I shall never be able to express the extent of my gratitude. All I can offer you is that whenever there is anything I might be of help to you, do not hesitate to ask, doctor.”

Victor only holds his glance and nods. 

But he cannot quite help the slight smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth as a sentiment he has not often in his still young life encountered fills his heart with an unexpected warmth. 

The sentiment he feels is to belong, he thinks.

“I assume Mister Chandler is with her still?” asks Sir Malcolm then, after they have taken their seats by the half-forgotten fireplace again.

Victor nods as he looks calmly into the dark embers of the fire.

“We should make him eat something though. Anything really. Or else he will be the next to be treated with vitamins.”

That earns him a rare smirk.

“I shall see to it”, Sir Malcolm replies and with a last slight pat on Victor’s shoulder, he leaves for the kitchen.

 

This time, it is a forest and it is cast in darkness again.

The earthy smell of greenery and the damp ground underneath her naked feet is prominent; she sees nothing but the trees surrounding her. How she loathes them.

She looks up towards what she expects to be the sky, but there is no sky to be looked at, no clouds, no stars, no moon. The treetops stretch further up and up endlessly.

And all of a sudden, she realises that this is not a forest. 

It is a maze.

The next thing she becomes aware of is someone – or something – breathing down her neck, a cold breath. Lifeless. Blood drained.

A whisper.

“Darkling.”

Her breath catches in her throat.

Don’t. Please. Not again.

“You cannot want me to leave, darkling.”

Her heart begins to race once more, but she remains controlled as she answers the one hiding in the darkness behind her, the invisible one, the horrible one.

“My every step shall lead me away from you”, she whispers, imploringly and with calm determination. 

“Further and further away I will go. Prey you will not find in me anymore.”

Laughter, again. Has it always been like this, has this game been this terrible before?

“You mean to sound harsh, but will you live up to those cold words? Committing oneself is easy, letting a poor, unsheltered soul be trapped and captured, what a simple thing to do. What is the hardest is to….pull…away.”

He draws these last words out and she feels ice-cold shivers down her spine.

“But I will”, she exhales deeply, trembling, “I have.”

She begins to run. 

And she stumbles. But she does not fall.

Something catches her.

Warmth appears all suddenly. 

“Sh, it’s alright, everything’s fine, Van.”

Van.  
A fragment of a dream, a different one, a daydream.

She wants to turn around to see where the darkness is, the cold, the darkest of creatures. But she does not see it. 

She is wrapped safely in warm arms that shield her.

 

When she wakes again, she is for the first time neither cold nor hot. And there is no doctor awaiting her with prepared syringes.

She feels his presence next to her as she opens her eyes. 

He is sitting by her bedside still as though he were an eternal warden, bound to wherever she is. 

How she wishes it were so. 

Another one of these selfish wishes, childlike needs for shelter and safety. All her deepest urges seem to roam free as her body is so dependent on help from the outside. His help.

Does she even deserve it, she asks herself. 

When she had lost him, when he had left her, she had forgiven him effortlessly, believing she had lost what she never deserved. But does this still ring true, does this still apply, is there still a truth to this thought of hers after what he has told her in the horrid slaughterhouse? 

She believes him and she trusts him like she never has done with anyone before. Can she also dare to believe what he had said about her deserving more than what she had experienced?

She watches him silently. 

He has his back turned to her, the sleeves of his light cotton shirt rolled up to his elbows, plunging something into a bowl of water on the bedside table. A piece of cloth, she figures. 

She sees how his brows are furrowed, his features concentrated with this slight impression of worry etched upon his face, the worry she has seen deep in those warm brown eyes ever since he had found her in the slaughterhouse and even more so ever since he had pulled the trigger.

He turns toward her in that moment, the damp cloth in his hand, motioning towards her forehead – and stops still for the fragment of a second when he realises that she is awake.  
There is a moment when they look into each other’s eyes and time seems to come to a halt.

Then, the half-smile she knows so well plays in one corner of his mouth, but the worry does not disappear from his features as he softly lays the piece of cloth against her forehead. 

She does not feel feverish anymore, but the cool textile feels fresh against her skin and she relaxes, breathing with ease. 

She keeps watching his every moment as he adjusts the cloth so it means no weight to her aching head, keeping his fingers on the cotton in a light touch, his thumb brushing against her skin only momentarily and yet she feels it acutely as though he had touched something hidden much deeper within her. 

“I wish”, he says suddenly, his glance focused on administering the cloth and hesitating as if trying to hold the words back that will come anyway, “I wished I could get inside your head and cast out all the nightmares, ripping them apart one by one so they no longer hurt you.”

His voice sounds raw and low, as though he has not spoken in a long time.

She searches for his eyes until she finds them. 

How warm they are, as though the sun had been captured inside them, radiating warmth through them, ancient and familiar.

“I”, she breathes, “have known greater pain, you know.”

Her voice sounds frail in her own ears, but for the first time since the world had tilted sideways, she thinks she sounds like herself again.

“Yes, I know”, he answers and looks back at her in understanding.

She asks for water then, which he retrieves from the table and pours into a glass he sets against her dry lips and helps her swallow in small, cautious sips.

When he has removed the glass and the cloth nothing is between them anymore.

She rests her head against the cushions once more and looks up into his eyes again.

“You were there.”

She sees uncertainty in his eyes as though he asks what she means. She swallows again, aiming to strengthen her voice.

“I know you were. Tha-“

“Don’t”, he interrupts her lowly and the hurt he feels at her wanting to thank him is visible in his eyes.

She reaches for his hand and finds it and wraps her pale fingers around his skin.

She cannot tell if it is his that are trembling or hers. Maybe they both are.

She feels his gaze rest on her eyes as she looks down onto their hands.

“Every time I wake I expect you to have gone. Again and again, each time.”

She pauses and draws breath, sharply.

“Every time I open my eyes and see into yours I think you must be a fantasy. A daydream like those beautiful ones I had forbidden myself. Only imaginary.”

Before she can react to it he has moved their conjoined hands, lain his on hers. 

He lifts them cautiously as if not to break her small fingers and then gently lays her palm and her outstretched fingers against his cheek. 

She can now touch the skin there, from his temples where underneath his pulse is beating to his cheekbone, too close to the surface of his skin. How thin he has become, she realises. 

How they are both only silhouettes, but their hearts so much more alive now without the distance.

“I’m here, Vanessa”, he says and she recognises the sound of his voice, the tone when an emotion threatens to overcome him.

“And nothing will make me leave you again. Whatever comes, we’ll face it together.”

The earnestness, the determination on his face, in his voice, in his whole demeanour causes something buried deep within her to break. 

She can almost hear it crack open, a forlorn vault of helplessness and pain, of disappointment and love lost and never recovered. 

She had never recovered. 

She had forgiven, she had understood, she had survived. 

But never had she recovered.

She bites her lip and feels the familiar sting of tears behind her eyes. 

She feels warmth seeping into her skin, his warmth, spreading from her palm and her fingertips down her arms, closer and closer to her heart.

“Will we, Ethan?” she asks then and loathes herself in the same instant for sounding all too much like a little girl, needing, longing for protection she can only hope for but never reckon on.

“Yes”, he answers and his voice is firm and there are no more tears found in his eyes. 

His strength has returned the moment she needs it. 

How they are fit for each other, she thinks and for the first time she does not feel foolish for thinking so. Not when she sees the conviction in his eyes and feels the way her fingers are shielded by his so perfectly.

“With all this means?” she asks and now the tears are on her cheeks.

She is not exactly sure what she is referring to with this fearful question, her darkness or his or both. Or maybe the admittance of something else altogether. The admittance of a feeling. Of impulses and urges, pure and sure as breathing.

He does not hesitate.

“With all it means, Vanessa”, he confirms, his eyes never leaving hers.

For the first time since the day she had found his fateful letter by the door, she smiles. It is a careful smile, a weary one, an exhausted one. But smile she does.

His expression seems to mirror hers. 

The moment would have lasted. 

Footsteps become audible from the corridor. He hears them before she does. 

“You should rest”, he says then, smiling softly.

“Dr. F. has threatened me. I don’t want to figure out what he does to me if you don’t get the sleep you need. And he’s right, you need rest.”

She smiles once more and as she does she feels the truth in his words as a familiar wave of exhaustion rushes over her.

After one last glance into his she closes her eyes and as she hears the good doctor enter and Ethan turn towards him, her senses are already fading and she gets closer and closer to the world inside her head and their hushed conversation is already beyond her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On men and women and how to handle guilt. And the nature of Vanessa's dreams which changes as she continues to reach for the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. This is chapter six. Since this is not only an Ethan/Vanessa story but also my kind of fix-it for season 3, some of the other core characters feature into this as well which I hope you like. Thank you so much for your beautiful comments and kudos! I’ve had a few exhausting days and knowing that somewhere out there people read and enjoy what I write means a lot to me, so thanks! :) Also I feel the need to say - I love Ethan Chandler/Talbot. So. Much.

6

“This is atrocious.”

Ethan lets some of the liquid drip, ooze off the spoon and back into the bowl. 

The dark orange-coloured soup bears a questionable look, to say the least. Victor had brought it to him from the kitchen, uttering something about Ethan having to eat and Sir Malcolm having cooked something which truly does look like…something.

Ethan had nodded absentmindedly and waited until Vanessa had truly fallen back asleep, her breathing calm and regular and her pale features soft and untroubled in deep slumber before silently leaving the room along with Victor and sitting down on two chairs in front of the door to the room.

In response to Ethan’s remark, Victor smiles darkly.

“Well, he told us something about finding the Nile. He never mentioned finding the herbs.”

In spite of his exhaustion, Ethan cannot quite help stifling a chuckle.

“Seriously, what is this again?” he asks then.

“Something with carrots, Sir Malcolm said.”

Ethan softly shakes his head in disbelief and reluctantly continues to explore the soup like dish whilst Victor leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes for a moment.

“I bet you’ve eaten far worse things in the great country beyond.”

“What is it with you Europeans, always thinking you’re the only ones with taste.”

“Well, looking at you I’d say we are.”

Ethan is tempted to empty the bowl of curious cookery over the doctor’s pale head, but thinking of what Victor has done for Vanessa the past couple days makes him reconsider and he resorts to an easy grin, tracing patterns into the orange liquid.

He is the first to recognise heavy footsteps approaching them and knows whom he is looking up to before the other man has even spoken.

“Might I have a word, Mister Chandler? By the time you are finished.”

There is something in the older man’s voice that Ethan feels unable to place. It is less harsh, his voice and the nervosity that has inhabited it all these days before cannot be found in it anymore.

“Of course”, Ethan answers, but he cannot help the undertone in his reply that tells of his hesitation. 

Deep within him, somewhere in his heart, he is still unsure about the extent of the damage Sir Malcolm’s doings had left on Vanessa’s sensitive and wounded soul. 

And he still cannot quite put the thought to rest that maybe, just maybe, Vanessa would not have been in the state Ethan has found her had her second father not left her along with all the others. 

Ethan knew that he could make the same accusations against Victor just as easily, but he could always trust on the doctor saving Vanessa’s life which is something that could not quite as easily be said about Sir Malcolm. 

They have all become allies over the course of the time and the things they have had to do. Each of them knows that it is only because they have stood together that they have even managed to survive. 

Yet, Ethan still finds himself unable to see past his difficulties with how strict, how harsh, how cold Malcolm had been with Vanessa so many times over so many years that he only ever knows the worst of. 

He knows that the explorer cares for her – judging her life as more valuable than his vampire daughter’s might have proven as much – but Ethan has never been quite sure of how deep, how earnest these emotions are when all he sees is how Sir Malcolm suppresses them. 

From time to time, they burst out in a stream, a rush that then is unforeseen and almost bewilderingly honest so that Ethan cannot but look at the other man in surprise.

However, with all this, a feeling between them remains, a restriction, a distance. 

Ethan does not know how to cross it or whether he even desires to. 

In his worst moments, Sir Malcolm had reminded him of his own father and many other men like him. The kind of men he had been afraid of becoming ever since he had seen what they were able to do to others around them. 

In his best moments however, Sir Malcolm had saved Vanessa’s life.

And while Ethan feels protective of their strange Grandage Place assortment altogether, the one and only human being he has ever felt truly deeply connected to from the instant he first saw her, felt her, is Vanessa Ives. 

“I shall be in my room then”, Sir Malcolm reply shakes him out of his thoughts and Ethan nods again and watches the explorer leave down the corridor.

“He will ask you to stay”, he hears Victor mumble tiredly next to him, stifling a yawn.

Pensively, Ethan keeps his gaze on the tall figure of the older man, disappearing at even pace.

“Not so sure about that”, he answers then, lowly.

 

His knock on the door is less determined than he wants it to appear. 

“Yes”, sounds Sir Malcolm’s voice from within the parlour and Ethan enters, closing the door behind him. 

As he turns to face the older man, he sees that the old explorer has his back turned to him and looks out the window into the growing darkness of a late autumnal evening.

Ethan remains silent, staying close to the entrance of the large room, seeking to figure out whether his feeling of slight unease originates from his own guilt or the explorer’s cold demeanour.

“You wanted to speak with me”, he finally says and his words sound hoarse and they lack any grace, resounding clumsily in his own ears.

In that very moment all he wants is to leave this room, leave this house entirely, taking Vanessa with him somewhere else, somewhere they would be the only ones; somewhere the sky expanded over vast landscapes, with mountains to shield them from whatever evil spirit.

He realises he is tired of all the formality; the well-mannered tidiness of London upper-class exhausts him, the senselessness of keeping deepest, darkest fears and the most intense emotions under lock and key as though showing them, baring them would cause this most sophisticated, meticulously built up façade in which everything is always alright and everything is always within the realm of the logical to collapse in its entirety.

For he knows it is nothing but façade in the end; they have all seen too much of this and the world beyond’s monstrosities to hold up an image of order and tidiness while facing those who tear down this same world to plunge it into the deepest darkness.

He has always felt that he belongs to the wide open spaces, the absence of society, to nature itself with all its extremes. He finds nature’s roughness reflected in his own. 

His creature, his beast, his animal – it all makes him a stranger to tea gatherings and diligently played matches of chess on a well-trimmed English lawn.

“Step closer, would you, Mister Chandler.”

Ethan approaches Sir Malcolm and comes to stand next to the older man’s tall, looming figure, looking out into the darkness beyond the glass alongside him.

“The doctor is with her now?” Ethan hears Sir Malcolm ask without turning his gaze toward him.

“Yes”, he replies, lowly.

“She will be alright.”

It is not a question this time, it is a statement and Ethan recognises the relief in it, albeit perfectly mastered and tightly buttoned up.

“Yes”, he replies once more and swallows, suppressing some of his own emotion.

“We try so hard to be men, do we not?” he hears the explorer ask suddenly and the question surprises him and his glance leaves the darkness of the Grandage Place and turns towards Sir Malcolm who has still not altered his gaze.

“When all we really are is weak and powerless tin soldiers, ostensibly feigning strength that is so easily made irrelevant.”

Finally, Sir Malcolm turns to look into Ethan’s eyes as he continues, his voice less harsh now.

“It is in moments like these that we realise that our whole world depends utterly on a woman’s grace. That it is her care, the relentless diligence she loves with, the effortless affection she provides when strength is but a wish, simply because it is her ability.”

He pauses and the look in his light grey eyes is the most earnest Ethan can remember ever having seen there.

And Ethan nods in agreement deeper and more sincere than he dares to admit.

“Yes”, he says.

“And yet”, Sir Malcolm begins anew, “yet all we do is hurt them. Tear their caring hearts to pieces as though they were our own, as though we possessed them. Leaving it to them to put themselves back together.”

Ethan looks at him.

“For me this realisation came too late. It came when they had all died. Mrs. Ives, Mina, Gladys.”

Sir Malcolm meets Ethan’s gaze now.

“Of us both, you are the better man, Ethan.”

Ethan frowns, confused by this most unexpected line of conversation and deeply reluctant to accept this statement.

“I don’t think so”, he objects. “I’ve wronged her in so many ways, I can’t make that right in a lifetime.” 

Bitter conviction stains his voice and the guilt is back, leading pain towards his core as though tightening shackles that already cut deeply into the flesh.

He faces the darkness beyond the window again as he feels Sir Malcolm’s gaze on him.

“And yet here you are. Praying by her bedside when you think she cannot hear you.”

Ethan presses his lips together, fighting the violent impulse to bite them until he tastes blood.

“I have”, he begins, stopping suddenly, his voice almost breaking. He swallows hard, then starts anew.

“Leaving her was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. I thought I’d spare her. I thought my darkness was worse than hers. I thought she’d be better off without my wretched shadow looming over her when all I did was letting her stand above the abyss all alone.”

He looks at the older man again in that moment who in turn looks out into the night in front of the window. 

When he speaks again, his voice is soft, recalling times past. And yet it is also stern, considering the events of the present.

“I have known Vanessa her whole life, Ethan. She has in many ways been closer to me than Mina from the moment I first looked into her eyes. She was only an infant, had hardly even entered our world. Still she looked at me as though she knew everything. Every darkness and every sin, every cruel inclination of the human mind. She grew up knowing all good things are spoiled. Every paradise destroyed, bereft of innocence. And when she looked me in the eyes she looked at me as though she knew that I would be the first to hurt her.”

Sir Malcolm turns his glance towards Ethan again, addressing him directly once more.

“And now, every time I see her look into your eyes, I see something altogether different there. She looks at you as though she knows that you are the first to love her.”

The two men share a glance. Ethan inhales, wanting to speak, searching for an answer, but Sir Malcolm interrupts him before he can start.

“I know that you do, there’s no need to voice that. Forgive yourself the way she has forgiven you, Mister Chandler. That is all you can do.”

Ethan lets the words sink in and it takes him moments.

“I’ll go see how she is”, he says then, lowly, hardly audible and hoarse and leaves the room. 

 

The first thing that is different about this dream is the light.

While in all her other dreams, darkness has reigned and drowned out all sources of light along with all her hope, this one is different.

It feels different as well.

The waiting, the expectation of something dark, something dangerous, something terrible lurking around the edges of where her dreams start and end – there is no such haunting feeling now, no waiting for darkness to take over like it has all those horrible times before.

There is no darkness and she does not search for it. 

His touch is the first thing she feels. Clearly, definitely. 

There are no barriers between them, nothing keeping them apart, no distance, no darkness, no danger, no death. 

His fingertips, gentle, but with purpose, tracing her collarbone, brushing the lengths of his fingers across her skin, then his palm comfortably warm between her clavicle and her breast and she leans into his touch instinctively while her head is spinning with questions – why does all this feel so familiar, how is she so sure of the absence of her darkness, how does she trust him so completely?

“You like that, don’t you?”

His voice, the low, trusted Southern drawl rumbles through her body, so close, whispering directly into her ear, his words carefree, withholding a smile, his breath caressing the sensitive skin there, teasing as he touches her. 

His hair falls down upon her face and strokes her skin. Teasing.

He must have grown it long again. 

She has already almost forgotten what he had looked like without it. It feels like it is a time she does not want to remember, no point in time she would want to return to. 

His fingertips spread warmth across her skin, his scent is more prominent now, earthy. He even smells like the sun he knows so well. 

She can smell the nature’s influences on him, the sun and the dust of a warm earth and even the moon, the cruel silver traces he has learned to live with.

And again, an instinct of hers comes to life, reacts before she can even consciously think about what she wants. 

She arches her head back, falling safely into cushions, giving him space, following his unspoken intent naturally. 

She can hear the smile in his next words, still teasing her softly.

“Yeah, you do, don’t you?”

She bites back a smile, tries to hide it from him without succeeding and hears him chuckle in response.

How does he know?  
How does he know how to touch her in just the right way?

Experience, something inside her says and she is impressed, astonished with her own certainty.

Wordlessly, she marvels at the way his palms fit so perfectly across the hollows of her chest, so close to her heart and such gentleness in strong hands as his presence enters all her senses when, for the first time, she allows herself to looks up at him, to see straight into his eyes. 

He is so beautiful she immediately fights the urge to cry. 

Only a faint whimper leaves her lips before she can help it and at once he takes his hands off her body the same instant she reaches for them because losing his touch now would be unbearable.

She feels unable to look at him anymore and yet she does and he sees something there and with the one hand of his she has not claimed in her own, he strokes stray strands of her dark hair behind her ear.

“What is it, darlin’?”

His low voice seems to tug at all her raw nerve endings, pulling her towards him with this overwhelming feeling of safety.

She looks into his eyes and what she finds there is something pure, as caring as it is primal, as deep as it is ancient.

Love?

A smile spreads across her lips, ghosting first, tentative, then slowly widening as his own expression confirms what she has thought of as wishful thoughts.

Slowly, she reaches upwards, touching his face with care, moving her fingers through his hair and lower, tracing them down his throat where his pulse is steadily beating and further down until she can lay her palm against the place on his skin underneath which his heart is beating, the wild heart, the ancient one.

The one she loves.

She looks back up and meets his gaze again, recognising curiosity, bewilderment there, soft and – endearing.

Her smile is full as she answers in a whisper.

“Nothing, Ethan.”

And then she tenderly, but eagerly pulls him towards her until their lips meet and she feels his grin against her mouth and for a moment she finds herself overcome with need for him, urgent, throbbing in every fibre of her being and she feels like she melts underneath his touch as light and warmth course through her like a second blood, a different one, a better one.

He is the first to break their kiss, albeit reluctantly and looks down and deep into her eyes as if in awe.

“You don’t cease surprising me, Mrs. Talbot”, he chuckles, caressing her neck and pulling her into another kiss with effortless ease.

Something within her stirs, but she does not want to voice her shock, instead she instinctively decides on lingering in the moment, letting the sheer pleasure of everything feeling so right wash over her and claim her. 

Her love for him takes her over and she feels him all around her.

Until there is a sound. 

She cannot place it although deep within her she knows she has heard it before.

It sounds close, as though coming from a room next to where they are, close enough but muffled through a closed door. Or a door left ajar.

She reacts, stopping still in her movements when at last she recognises what it is.

It is an infant, whimpering, waking up, and then crying.

She feels him break their kiss, his breath lingering on hers, his scent everywhere on her and hers everywhere on him.

His smile is as gentle as before with only the slightest, faintest hint of regret. And recognition. This has happened before, she knows by the amused look on his face.

“I’ll go.” He chuckles again.

Somewhere in her heart she puts everything together.

“Claire”, she utters, the name slipping from her lips so naturally.

“We’ll have to tell her what timing means someday”, he hears him mumble, the amusement still manifest in his low voice.

She lets go of his hand only reluctantly, which earns her a smile, a different one than those before.

“Close your eyes”, he says softly.

Questioningly she looks up at him, furrowing her brows ever so slightly, more than a little amused at the idea.

When the conviction in his eyes does not fade, she obliges as he adds:

“By the time you open them again, I’ll be there.”

She feels herself smile as he leaves the room to calm their daughter.

 

Consciousness seeps into her body only very slowly and as she realises she is lying in bed alone with faint morning light streaming in from the window, she wonders whether Ethan is still with Claire. 

He must be, she figures, because there is silence now.

It is only when she tries to turn over and feels the pain in her left arm and sees Ethan’s tall figure on the chair next to her bed that she knows what she has experienced is not reality.

And immediately she aches. It is a faraway, numb ache that she has never felt before.

It aches, the knowledge of all this happiness having been a dream. Of his family name gracing hers. Of Claire.

Love.

She knows it now, more certain than ever as she sees him asleep in the chair next to her bed, his features worriless in slumber.

Her dream has been full of it, because her heart is.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On healing, the sun and the admittance of feelings. Vanessa leaves the sickbed for the first time and slowly, carefully approaches the real world again. What will it be like, waking up from days of darkness and what will she make of the dreams?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. Thank you all so very much for all your beautiful comments and bookmarks and kudos! Heartfelt thank you’s go to every single one of you who takes the time to read and review this piece and who deems it worthy of a bookmark or a kudo. I went on holiday after I had posted chapter 6 (which is why this has taken so long) and as I was travelling I read all your kind words and saw your kudos and it really touched me. I cannot stress enough how good it feels to share my feelings about my favourite characters with you! I hope you will enjoy the following newest chapter and thank you again! Also: I have not memorised the exact structure of Grandage Place by heart, but I’m quite sure there is no terrace. However, this being an alternate vision, I simply invented a terrace for my own purposes.  
> And also: Have you seen “Miss Peregrine’s home for peculiar children”? I have seen it recently and adored it and can definitely recommend it.  
> Happy reading now and thanks in advance for your thoughts!

7

She does not remember having fallen back asleep when he wakes her. 

It marks the first time she does not wake naturally and if she has dreamt once again, she cannot remember the images.

Dazed, she watches as he motions to pull the bedsheet from her body, gently, but with determination. 

Watches as he gets a blanket of finely woven wool from a drawer and wraps it around her shoulders, his hands calm, his touch safe and steady. 

The blanket is so large and overlong that it even covers her feet. However, that does not seem to satisfy him for he opens yet another drawer to get a pair of socks made of rough wool and pulls them over each of her pale feet.

“What…?” she hears herself asking, finally, as if she has only now remembered that she is able to speak.

And finally, he looks at her. 

She instantly thinks that he looks less tired, less exhausted than the shapeless, numberless days before. His eyes seems set alight with something akin to relief, a hopefulness that looks almost boyish on his face that she has seen so stern, so serious countless times.

“You gotta get out of here.”

A soft half-smile in one corner of his mouth.

“Fully wake up.”

Immediately she wants to protest. 

She feels comfortable where she is, with him and all she wants to do is sleep, so close to him, his hand wrapped around hers. 

She is not sure if she ever wants to stop sleeping like this at all, protected, shielded away from the outside world she has never quite had a place in, breathing in his scent so close to her.

Since for once, with him near her, sleeping has felt like healing.

He must have seen the reluctance in her features for he points in the direction of the window, animatedly, with conviction that tells its witnesses it has already won, no chance. His voice is softer than his gesture, but it supports his demeanour.

“Here, you see that? Sunshine. Actual sunshine. You need to see that.”

And indeed, soft golden rays of an afternoon sun stream in through the curtains, showing their presence as if eager, willing to please the human beings who have spent so much time in too big, too grey cities.

And as she opens her mouth again to voice her restraint, he has already crossed the distance between them in two long strides and touches her, one careful hand underneath her knees and the other beneath the small of her back and as he lifts her off the bed with the blanket wrapped around her shivering, pale body she only manages to whimper in faint objection.

“Tell me if I hurt you”, he says lowly and she finds his glance again and cautiously shakes her head. 

The ache in her left arm feels distant and irrelevant, like a half-forgotten and half-healed twisted ankle that only begins to hurt when one is reminded of its existence. 

She is sure that there is a scar. 

She has not yet conjured up the nerve to ask to be shown it in a mirror for she knows it is inevitably going to remind her of her more than desperate pleas to die, of the moments she had forsaken all the last remainders of hope. 

And what she dreads even more is that it would bring back the all too vivid memory of the look in Ethan’s eyes, the pain in them that had brought her heart down to her knees. Never again does she want to see this pain in his eyes, not even in her own memory.

His slight smile shakes her out of her thoughts and before she can launch into more elaborate protest against leaving this familiar small and safe space, he has carefully carried her out of the room and she clings to the warmth of his arms, her head on his shoulder, her cheek comfortably brushing against the cotton of his shirt.

She does not know how he does it, but they meet nobody on their way through the house.

The conscious, logical part of her brain that has slowly come into force again has half expected having to face the doctor, Sir Malcolm or even Miss Hartdegen, but their silent trip outside passes without any witnesses or worried looks. 

Now she is sure that he has arranged it so. He knows her well enough to register her relief. 

She wants to thank him in this instant, but she cannot seem to get the words out and only looks up at him.   
He holds her closer and she buries her head in the crook of his neck as he makes his way through a corridor and into the kitchen and from there, outside. 

 

The terrace of Grandage Place is one of these places that only minor usage and even less attention get tended to. 

Naturally, London is to no time of the year a city of warmth and sunshine so that extended sojourns outside are rare.

And since for the past years the house’s only permanent residents had been Vanessa and Sir Malcolm, no effort had been made to maintaining an air of tidiness and order on the terrace nobody cared to use anyway.

She does not remember how long ago it has been that she has seen this place, only a few metres of grey stone plaster, now covered in brown and orange and yellow autumn leaves. 

A couple of old chairs are still there, but Ethan or Sir Malcolm must have brought them forward in advance for one of them is set in the terrace’s perfect centre.

The same almost unbearably bright golden rays of sunshine that have snuck into Ethan’s room through the curtains now illuminate this small, neglected place with almost triumphant force, as if to cast all the light the sun ever has to offer down onto this small oasis of stone in the capital city of all things grey and sinister. 

It surely is beautiful and a sight to see, but as a fragment of all this exuberant sunlight enters her vision, it immediately hurts her eyes and she has no choice but to shut them and hide her face against Ethan’s chest once more. 

“No”, she groans.

Maybe he will bring her back inside if she only supports her protest with enough stubborn persistence. 

As though he has read her mind, he only chuckles and it sounds almost like what she has heard in her dreams and instinctively, her heart gives a leap and she feels her resistance falter ever so slightly.   
How she has missed this sound, how she has longed to hear it again after all the darkness they had been through these past days.

“Come on, Miss Ives”, he responds, now most definitely amused as he tries his hand at gentle persuasion, “one can’t spend forever in there if this is waiting right outside!”

She groans again and his soft laugh rumbles through her body as he approaches the one chair in the centre of the terrace, still brightly illuminated by the afternoon sun.

Carefully, he lowers her down and places her in the chair and she lets go off him only very reluctantly, keeping her eyes closed throughout. 

She feels him adjust the blanket around her body, tightly, so it warms her and for the first time since they have gone outside, she realises how cold the autumn day she is presented to actually is and begins to shiver and tremble before she can suppress it.

“The sun will warm you”, she hears him say, more earnest now, as he draws the blanket up to her chin. 

She thinks she must look like a caterpillar now, tightly huddled into a cocoon of thick wool, but she still feels so cold and she cannot seem to stop shivering.

She starts another cautious attempt at opening her eyes, but finds it still way too bright after so many days spent continuously in semi-darkness.

“But it hurts”, she protests weakly.

She hears him draw a deep breath and then he must have kneeled down before her for in the next instant she feels his hands on her shoulders, lightly and his shadow falls on her face, so she knows she can safely open her eyes without staring straight into the sun once again.

Her gaze meets his immediately and for a moment she is taken aback by how much quiet emotion she sees there. 

She feels her pulse quicken with every passing second she spends looking into his warm eyes and wants to formulate a sentence, to voice something she cannot seem to find the right words for, when he is the first to speak again, his voice soft and earnest.

“I believe the sun will do you good. Please try it, alright?” 

His whole expression emanates how serious he is about this, so she forgoes her resistance with one long glance in his eyes and nods. 

He leans in to plant a light kiss on her forehead, then looks into her eyes again.

“I’ll always be around”, he says, pointing towards the entrance to the terrace, “right there in the kitchen.”

There are indeed several windows from the kitchen out onto the terrace, so she knows he can see her when he is inside. She nods again.

“If anything’s up, if you need anything, call for me. Anything, okay?”

She swallows and nods once more, finally finding her voice again.

“Yes, Ethan.”

She still sounds frail and shaky, but her answer is enough to make him smile.

“Just try and let the sun work on you. Its energy, its warmth – try and take it in.”

And then his hands leave her shoulders and she closes her eyes again as his shadow disappears and she faces the sun again, still shivering and unsure of Ethan’s optimistic healing theory.

 

“Are you really sure of this?”

The older man has entered the kitchen soundlessly and Ethan only now becomes aware of his presence and keeps looking out the kitchen window, his glance fixed on Vanessa’s small shoulders covered in the blanket that shines white in the exuberant sunlight. 

“The first good idea Mister Chandler has probably ever come up with so far”, comes a dry remark by Victor who has just as silently followed their strange little kitchen assembly, “Besides coming to Europe that is.”

“You mean her healing will be accelerated by sunlight?” Sir Malcolm asks back, sounding faintly skeptical. 

When Ethan neither turns to face the other men nor replies, the explorer searches the doctor’s sleep-deprived face for an answer. Victor’s glance back at him is stern.

“Well, there are many ways to talk about it. But if Miss Ives does not wake up now, she will never stop sleeping. Understandably so.”

When this vague reply earns him a confused look by Sir Malcolm, the doctor sighs and rightfully sees the need to elaborate. Ethan’s back is still turned to them, his attention entirely focused on Vanessa’s small, sunlit bathed frame in the old garden chair.

“It is common knowledge in the medical world that the longer a patient stays in the vacuum between medication-induced sleep and shaky consciousness, the harder it gets for the patient to return to, well, the real world.”

Sir Malcolm’s brows furrow after that explanation as he asks back.

“But she does want to, does she not?”

“Of course she does!”

It is the first time Ethan has spoken and he turns around to face them.

When he realises his tone might have been a bit too rough, he takes a deep breath and leans against the closest counter, always close to the window.

“I was sick once, when I was about eleven or twelve years old. Nobody could really say what it was.”

With a half-smile, he looks over at the doctor.

“We weren’t fortunate enough to have a Dr. Frankenstein around back then.”

Victor’s smile is court, but definite.

“So”, Ethan continues then, “I spent days in bed, hardly still there. I mean, my body was, but I…I was somewhere else.”

A faraway expression enters his face as he proceeds. 

“So one day, my uncle had enough. He just took me out of my room and brought me outside and set me down in the back yard, the sun shining brighter than I’d ever seen. I hated him for it that moment, dragging me out.”

Ethan pauses and when he looks back at the other two men, he smiles faintly.

“But when the sun and I had been alone for long enough, I felt like I was finally able to be alive again. I don’t know if it makes any sense, but I thought it’s worth a try.”

His eyes trail back to Vanessa out in the sun and the other two know he is with her again. 

Neither of them pester him with further doubts or questions and quietly set to work on something like dinner.

 

The first moments alone in the bright sunshine are horrible. 

Only a few minutes in and she is already on the verge of calling out his name, trembling with cold, the last remaining traces of all the medication and her own insecurity, the feeling of being misplaced in her own body. 

As she keeps her eyes shut, shivering almost frantically, he thinks about his words again, about the fact that he thinks the sun will do her good. 

She cannot remember ever having been extremely fond of sunshine. It has just been there or not and if at all, her childhood days had been the only sunny days she has any vivid recollection of. 

Entire afternoons spent by the beach, laughter and levity and clean air entering her lungs, streaming into her entire being, so easily, so deeply. 

So she tries to concentrate on her breathing next, taking slow and regular breaths as she trembles.

His words replay in her mind.

Fully wake up.

And even though her eyes remain closed against the relentless brightness of the sun, she can feel herself growing more aware, more focused and her body relaxes against the soft blanket and for the first time, she can actually feel the warmth the sun bathes her in. 

She can practically see the golden rays even though her eyes are just as tightly shut as before. 

Her own heartbeat thuds in her ears, evenly, fearless for once, pure.

It takes only a few light filled moments until his face appears in her thoughts again. 

Ever since she had first met him all these months, years even, ago at this rather silly Wild West show, she had instantly and instinctively been sure of it, but only recently admitted its definite knowledge to herself – that he would never let her go again.

That for her, there would never be anybody but him again.

It had stirred within her from the first moment she had seen, felt him even, this certainty that seemed so much more than a mere feeling. 

There had been men in her life before. She would have lied to herself not taking them into account. 

Peter, the firstest of the first, whom she had claimed for herself from the moment she had begun to view him as a man rather than a trusted playground friend. 

Captain Branson, the instrument, the mere tool used to accomplish something she will forever feel ashamed of. 

How much it had hurt. She could still remember the dull, throbbing pain.

She had always imagined her first to be romantic, tender, careful. The way all girls she knew back then had.

Instead, in her case, it had been fabricated of rough method lacking any positive sentiment, nothing more than the monotone mechanics of a clearly experienced body against an in every aspect virginal one, even as she had been trying to use him more than he her. 

For days and weeks she had not even dared to look at any part of her body below her waist again, feeling stained and tainted and weighed down by all the shame and self-loathing another had preyed upon and turned her upside down and inside out, virtually stripping her of everything she had ever thought good and true about herself.

The demon, the other had robbed her of something she so valued, something that had been so sacred to her; something she had been wanting to give to a man like Ethan.

Sometimes she still sees herself lying there in the half-dark solarium, back pressed against the hard tabletop. When she wakes, she forgets these dreams easily; worse ones have taken their place.

And after all these years, Mister Gray had somehow entered her life like he had nothing else to focus on which she thought to be true. 

As a casual passer-by, he had taken all her fragmented ideas about herself as a human being, about herself as a woman and her sexuality and waltzed about with them in the palm of his hand, carefree and without any permanent commitment. 

She had seen something in him, he had given her something, maybe even simply the sheer idea that anyone other than the darkness breathing down her neck could be able to see more than a vessel of sin in her, that somehow a man who knew nothing of her scars and shame could see a woman in her.

Thoughts that had seemed all too foolish only several weeks after, as she was recovering from Ethan’s exorcism. 

Ethan.

Even then, after their first shared encounter with the shadow creatures of an underworld so parallel to their own, not a single day had passed without her catching herself lost in a thought of him, mostly in the shapeless vacuum between sleep and waking, the small and precious times she loses the control of herself without dire consequences looming.

Hardly a day had passed by without him on her mind at some point. 

In fact, she assumed the days she had not thought of him at all could be counted on a single hand.

From the moment she had first laid eyes on him, he had been there, in her thoughts, even before she had been completely, truly sure what to name the sentiment that seemed intertwined with him, that wove itself so effortlessly, so automatically in with the simple mention of his name, the thought of his face, his smile.

She had long ago forbidden herself any feelings for those belonging to the other gender that surpassed cold, professional detachment. 

She had tried to abstract herself from all romantic feelings entirely and what an effort she had made with it.

But since that afternoon at the ridiculously theatrical Wild West show, Ethan Chandler had so easily, so naturally found his way into her thoughts that she had begun to think it was only a cruel trick of her scarred mind and the constantly and violently suppressed female instincts within her, tempting her senselessly with something she had always deeply longed for but could never possibly have because of her...condition.

Had someone asked her if she had had any romantic feelings for him back then, in those first weeks, she would probably have laughed. 

Not because they had not in fact been there from day one – but because it had seemed illogical, unfathomable, completely impossible to her that someone like him could ever be anything more than an ally to her once he had been exposed to her…affliction. 

With every passing day, she had been more aware of the fact that that day would come, the closer they got, the more time they spent together. 

She had always known that someday he would know her secret, her condition and she had come to dread that point in time, the point in time that she had been sure would forever change the way the kind-hearted, the beautiful, the gentle Mister Chandler looked at her. 

And indeed, it had – though not at all how she had imagined it. 

There was this man who could basically ask anything of any woman and get it in a moment’s notice, a man who she thought had all the choices and possibilities this world could offer someone like him – and he had not even stirred. 

He had not taken one step away from her. Never because of who and how she is.

Which had only proven to her how right her instinct had been – that he was in every way the only one.

It had only been when she had figured out about his darkness which she had never seen as any such thing. 

She had told him right when she had begun to suspect, to feel something about him, that it has never mattered to her. And she would always stand by her words.

"Whatever you have done, whoever you have made yourself – I’m here to accept you."

But he had not been able to accept himself.

Only then had he left and even then, it had never been because of who or what she is. She understands this now more than all these months ago.

He has never let her affliction come between whatever it is they share.

Her mind flashes back to the moment she had seen him in the witches’ castle, more animal than man.

He had recognised her so clearly. She had not been afraid. 

She had not been afraid since the fragment of a second she had sought these eyes for mercy and had found them to be his, the warm ones that had looked upon her again and again with nothing but kindness.

Immediately she had been overcome with the impulse to touch him, to ease his rage, to calm him, to show him that she would accept whatever creature he was, whatever a higher power had decided for him to be. 

And she had seen the shame in his eyes all too well, the same shame he must have seen in her eyes all these weeks ago when she had begged him incessantly to kill her.

He had believed in the good in her – again and again, just a few days ago. 

And he had stayed. With her. For her.

He is in every sense the only one.

Suddenly, as though a veil has been pulled from her sight, she opens her eyes and looks straight into the sunshine without restraint.

Her sight is clear and the world around her black and white after all the darkness before her eyes.

Somehow, she must tell him, she thinks. Too much time has already passed; too many chances never taken, too many opportunities left unused. 

Her feeling has been there from the start.

And if he has come back for her and wants to stay, if he believes in her, if he is still there despite it all, she needs to tell him. 

There is a chance he knows. That he might have figured it out during those shapeless days of her illness.

But her dreams he has not seen. And her longing for what they have shown her tugs at her so frequently, in sleep or waking.

She could not rightly say what comes first, the single tear down her cheek or her smile.

In this instant, she knows she has woken up.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On revelations, admissions and coming back to life, which proves to be more complicated than Vanessa wishes it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. I hope you’re still enjoying this and I’d be enthused about reads or comments! Also, Josh Hartnett himself said when asked that he is still sad about “the end” and he’d be back as Ethan any time. Almost made my heart implode.

8

 

The afternoon sun has turned into a softer, less exuberant evening glow as she finds him standing before her again. 

She senses his presence before she even looks up at him and when she does, he kneels down before her chair so they are eye-to-eye.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks and while his expression is relaxed, she still recognises the slight edge in his voice that tells of worries he is doing his best to hide.

She wants to touch him in that moment, cross their small distance and brush her fingertips along his temple, over his cheek and down to his jaw.

Where this impulse originates from she can only imagine and however strong it is, she resists; suddenly self-conscious of how sensitive she is.

In her state, she is still dependent on him, but she wants to show him how much he has already helped her recuperate. He has already spent too much time worrying about her.

So she holds his gaze and replies in calm earnestness.

“Much better.”

The smile that breaks way over his features is so utterly genuine that she is equally amused and moved by it and she smiles back suppressing tears she hopes he cannot see.

A few moments pass without a word, before he clears his throat and nods toward the kitchen.

“Sir M, Victor and I have tried our luck at making dinner. Would you like to try it?”

Another smile spreads across her lips.

“Sir Malcolm does not make dinner.”

She is not quite sure where the lightness in her words comes from, there is a casual ease about them the sun seems to have brought, along with other revelations. 

There is new energy within her now, she can feel it pulsating underneath her skin and in her heart.

He chuckles in response.

“I guess things have changed.”

She meets his gaze and nods.

“Yes”, she replies quietly, studying his face. “They have.”

Their gaze deepens once more, then he motions to lift her out of the chair to which she protests, gently, but with determination. She insists on walking. 

He helps her up until she stands next to him, her right arm linked into his. 

She feels his eyes on her and his careful hesitation without even looking over.

“Say the word and I’ll lift you up.”

She shakes her head. 

The first time back on her own two feet is daunting and her stance is wobbly at best. But she wants to get better and she is stubborn. 

She wants to feel like a human being again and standing upright on both feet seems like another step towards that. 

She can feel her legs tremble, her muscles numb and too heavy, but at least there is no dizziness and the world around her seems steady without tilting sideways which marks another first.

Warmth radiates from his arm over to hers and she looks up at him expectantly and also somewhat triumphantly.

“Alright”, he retorts with a grin playing around the corners of his mouth.

She does not take to his amusement or at least she pretends not to.

“We could already have eaten by now, Mr. Chandler.”

When he chuckles now, her heart gives a familiar leap and she knows better than to look at him again, heat rising to her cheeks in a blush she is too aware of.

“I’ll bring you to…the room and get the dinner then”, he suggests while they cross the terrace, her arm safely resting in his.

She immediately finds it funny how they dance around the pronoun almost awkwardly which is uncharacteristical for both of them. 

“The” room that is technically his, but now hers for the time being. 

But naming it “theirs” would be wrong in a different way too. 

She imagines it for an instant, having a room that bears the name “theirs”. Daydreams.

She gets herself out of that thought with a court shake of the head, sees him look over to her.

“I want to eat with you. Together. At a table, sitting on a proper chair. Like a…” she pauses, swallowing, turning the words around in her head until they bare themselves to her the way she means them. 

She feels his gaze resting on her as they saunter rather than walk towards the kitchen door, when she finally continues, her words barely audible.

“Like I have never stopped being alive.”

“Of course”, he replies and she looks up at him now, smiling softly, aiming to take the weight out of these words. He returns the smile.

 

The spacious room equipped with the old dinner table is familiar and calm. 

The men have not given decoration or candles too much consideration which is something she is immediately comfortable with. 

It is a very simple, very male setting that slowly puts her last doubts about returning to the company of people other than Ethan to rest. 

Victor is the first to perceive her entrance. He even stands up from his seat and smiles at her in a shy mixture of astonishment and admiration she instantly finds endearing.

“Miss Ives. It is a pleasure seeing you in a more…vertical position.”

She suppresses her immediate amused reaction at his familiar awkwardness and smiles back at him as Ethan leads her to the nearest chair opposite the good doctor.

“Which I have you to thank for, doctor.”

She can see that Victor accepts her gratitude, but in the next instant she sees him nod in Ethan’s direction who has just helped her into her chair and now stands behind her.

“Not only me, Miss Ives. I must say Mister Chandler is more than half responsible for your recovery. He has been quite helpful.”

She looks up to Ethan who slowly takes a seat in the chair next to her and she lets her glance wander over him, observing each of his movements. 

She knows he is aware of her watching him, but does not directly react to it; for the duration of a second she even finds him looking suddenly rather uncharacteristically self-conscious which makes her wonder how much he has truly done for her. 

She almost regrets all the time she has spent sleeping, withdrawn into her own thoughts and dreams even though she knows it has been none of her doing. She could not have helped it.

“Vanessa!”

Sir Malcolm’s baritone fills the air before he has even entered the salon.

He gives her a broad smile. 

She realises she cannot remember the last time he has looked at her like that. Warm. Simply the way a father looks at a daughter. 

She returns the smile, brightly as she feels even more humanity coming back to her, slowly, as though it flows back into her system, slowly, but steadily. 

He is naturally heading towards the seat at the head of the table. Mid-movement, they all watch him as he reconsiders and finally chooses to take the chair next to Victor.

They all refrain from voicing any bewilderment, like a silent agreement. 

Long since have they drawn closer when a darkness of any kind is overcome.

A short, comfortable silence settles over them, before she hears Ethan next to her clear his throat. 

She watches as he stands up, letting his glance wander over each member of this strange assembly. She catches a quick look at the other men, but they seem as surprised as she herself is.

She suddenly realises they must inform Miss Hartdegen of the dark one’s disappearance – he must be chased and they will need her help sooner or later. 

She is shaken out of this thought when she hears Ethan’s voice, low and serious as he begins speaking as though he is making an official announcement.

“There are some things I’d like to say.”

Another glance around at the others and a deep inhale. 

She resists the impulse to reach out and grasp his hand, easing his nervosity, the origin of which is unfathomable to her.

“You have all been very generous with me when I didn’t deserve it. When I couldn’t reckon on it. Which is why I think you deserve me being honest with you.”

He pauses before continuing in a stronger, more determined tone.

“I’m not actually Ethan Chandler. It was a stage name I took on. My real name is Ethan Lawrence Talbot. We’ve been through enough together by now that I think you should know that. It’s just a name, but…anyway.”

As she watches him, it seems to her as though a certain weight is lifted off his shoulders with this sudden admission. 

Sir Malcolm is naturally the first to react to it.

“Thank you for your honesty. Although I do not know how I will handle this. I have grown too accustomed to “Mr. Chandler”ing you.”

A slight smile passes from one man to the other and Victor nods in agreement.

“There’s something else”, Ethan begins anew then, serious again.

“I”, he hesitates and then suddenly turns slightly to look at her and she holds his gaze, waiting. If only she knew what he is trying so hard to break to them, she would help him, but she can only wait in wonder.

He lets his eyes wander over to the others again and it comes to a halt as he is looking straight at Victor, then Sir Malcolm.

“I would like to ask you all if, despite all I have done, all I have caused, you will let me stay here.”

For the duration of a moment nobody reacts and there is utter silence. 

She feels the moment stretching out, horribly still. 

Then, she watches Sir Malcolm look back at Ethan calmly.

“Everyone on this table has done things he or she is not proud of, Mister Talbot. However, it is my belief that it does not matter what bad we have done, but what good we want to do and will do.”

He pauses, then continues.

“And I am convinced that the good you have done in our joint cause has far outweighed the bad. But at the end of it all, I should not be the one judging this.”

And unexpectedly, Sir Malcolm looks over at her, directly into her eyes.

“I believe this to be Miss Ives’ decision. What is your opinion on this, doctor?”

Victor looks up from the full plate before him he has been focused on and looks gravely from Sir Malcolm to Ethan and lastly, to her.

“I would agree. It is for Miss Ives to decide.”

They mean it. 

For the first time since her time out on the terrace, enveloped by the warmth of the sun, she feels like her world is tilting sideways again and she looks up from Victor’s glance towards the one constant there is, the one warden in her half-re-established, still shaky world just as his gaze finds hers.

She focuses on her breathing and realises it is already too quick. 

When and how have they come up with this question? 

She wants to be angry, mad even, but all she can do is look up at him, steadily focused although her hands have resumed their slight trembling once more. 

Being awake begins to exhaust her, drain her of the newly assembled energy the sun has provided her with.

As she sees the doubt slowly creep into the familiar, beloved brown of his eyes, she is not sure whether to gather all the unsteady force in her weak body and reach out and hit him or to give in to the instinctive impulse to reach out and touch his hand, cover his pulse and hide it from the others and guard it in her grasp.

She refrains from doing either and just keeps looking at him.

“Yes”, she utters, so silently that she is not sure if anyone has even heard it.

Her heart is nearly beating out of her chest for she feels like she is agreeing to something else, something altogether different than offering him a small room in a spacious house full of surplus rooms. 

Her mind flashes back to one of her dreams for an instant and despite her growing exhaustion, she feels heat spreading from her heart somewhere else.

Her pulse only starts to become regular again as she sees the doubt leave his eyes and be replaced by something else, something more than plain relief. 

He gives a slight nod and says lowly, more to her than to the others.

“Thank you.”

Victor clears his throat and points towards the plates in front of them, preparing himself for a dry remark.

“Now that we know we will not have to find ourselves a new American, let’s have dinner. I doubt delaying it further will improve its quality.”

 

The dinner itself is a rather simple affair; they have thrown together potatoes and carrots and other vegetables Sir Malcolm was able to find on a small market and its taste is neither spicy nor otherwise remarkable.

She figures that to a certain degree she is the cause of the absence of herbs or spices. It is all very mild and she does not believe it would be that way had she already completely healed.

She eats slowly and with caution, swallowing every little bite entirely before taking the next. 

Her hands tremble a little, slightly overwhelmed with the task of holding fork and knife and after a short while, she rests the left one on her thigh, growing tired of its visible weakness.

Suddenly, she sees Sir Malcolm get up and vanish from her sight before reappearing a few moments later, a glass in hand.

As she looks over and sees it, she feels something within her grow cold.

It is crimson-coloured liquid.

She swallows hard, staring at it. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Ethan watching her from the side.

“Are you alright?” she hears him ask and the worry in his voice is almost tangible.

She swallows again, unable to tear her eyes away from the glass, barely even registering his question. She nods once for good measure, to reassure him.

Sir Malcolm seems so focused on his plate that he is oblivious of her staring. 

And in fact oblivious of other things as well, for in an entirely unexpected movement, his elbow touches the foot of the glass and it sways and falls.

The crimson-coloured liquid oozes, spilling all over the tablecloth, lazily, languidly.

The images in her nightmare and the reality before her eyes melt together and she feels her stomach respond before she can help it and she pants, painfully drawing breath while immediately also suppressing the vehement impulse to retch.

“Vanessa!”

Ethan’s voice gets through to her, but she is too afraid of what her body might do to try and answer him and instead, she backs away, her entire body trembling as she gets up and runs on unsteady feet into the nearest bathroom.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On what has healed and what has not. Yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. This chapter was quite emotional to write and I hope you enjoy it. I just wanted you to know I truly appreciate your feedback. Please do not hesitate to give me constructive criticism if needed. You’re my first readership and as odd as this might sound - I’m so very grateful to have you. Thanks. :)

9

 

Her knees tremble as she hovers above the toilet. The room seems to be spinning around her and her breathing still comes too quick. 

Another wave of nausea rolls over her and she bows lower, her hands resting on the toilet seat.

She closes her eyes and opens them again and the image of the sodden tablecloth and the broken glass disappear.

“Vanessa?”

The door is ajar for she has not taken the time to close it. 

She wants to answer, but does not dare to and only keeps breathing.

His hand is on her shoulder, lightly.

“What’s wrong?”

She closes her eyes, trying to formulate an articulate reply which proves to be a senseless effort when her stomach reminds her yet again that she still feels horribly sick. 

There seems to be a weight in her now, a stone in her stomach weighing her down with dull pain.

“The food maybe?” she hears him ask which sounds more like he is asking himself than her.

Finally, she manages to turn her head, slightly, and looks up at him. There it is again, the worry in his eyes.

She takes some more breaths, sucking the air deep into her lungs to strengthen herself.

“I”, she gets out then, barely, “I’m not sure.”

In the next instant all her remaining strength leaves her and she sinks to her knees and at once he is there.

“Let me get you to bed.”

She shakes her head which causes another flash of dizziness before she can prevent it.

“Please”, he tries again and after several more minutes she gives in to him and lets him carry her again this time.

 

Blue semi-darkness and fresh air fill the room for once. 

They must have opened the window while she had been outside. It seems days ago now. 

Carefully, Ethan lowers her down on the mattress and adjusts her sheets. 

She watches him, the pain in her stomach only a dull echo of before and the nausea a faint subcurrent. 

Her hand catches his in his ministrations and there is still so much she wants to tell him.

One of his familiar faint smiles and a light squeeze on her hand.

“I’ll get Victor to check on you.”

“No”, she protests weakly, dreading any more worried looks and tiring medication.

His gaze deepens, more serious now.

“I want to make sure you’re alright. Please let me do that, Vanessa.”

How could she deny him that?

The doctor’s clean and cold hands on her forehead. Then on her wrist, his pocket-watch out.

Obligatory questions she answers exhaustedly.

A few more steps and procedures she knows too well already, before Victor turns to Ethan who had been standing in the doorframe, as far away from them as possible without leaving entirely.

They are far past the whole decency and modesty state when it comes to situations like this, but he had been adamant on giving her space and only standing by to be there if anything happens. 

“The vitals are fine so far. That her circulation is still shaky is to nobody’s bewilderment, I would assume.”

Victor turns to look at her now.

“To my reckoning it was simply a bit too overwhelming for your body in its state of recuperation. With some rest you should be fine.”

She nods to this, waiting impatiently for him to quit the medical discussion. 

How she is tired of all these treatments. She could not be more grateful for them to have kept her alive; and yet all these examinations wear her out. 

“If needed, I can give her something against the nausea”, she hears the doctor saying in Ethan’s direction.

“No”, she utters once more, with fervour, “please not again.”

Both men look at her now.

“Are you sure, Miss Ives?” Victor asks.

She nods again and Victor accepts it.

“If anything is amiss, you know where to find me.”

He gives her a small smile and turns to leave, but is held off by Ethan’s hand on his shoulder. The two men share a glance.

“Outside”, Victor says and they close the door before resuming their conversation.

“Do you think this is a good idea?” Ethan asks, keeping his voice down, “She has every right to have enough of this, but I’m not sure she is as fine as she wants to be.”

A small sigh passes Victor’s lips before he can help it.

“You worry when you should be relieved, Ethan.”

Ethan’s brows furrow in slight confusion.

“Her refusing to be medicated is an improvement. Had she said yes, now, that would have been cause for worry”, Victor explains and closes with another faint smile.

“She is making progress, Ethan. Everything else will come in time.”

 

When she watches him come back into the room, she immediately notices that some of the worry has left his expression and slowly and carefully, she sits up, leaning against the head of the bed. 

Their eyes meet and as though she had voiced her thoughts, he comes to sit on the edge of the bed, close, but without touching her.

She studies his face in the dim light of candles inside and darkness outside. 

The gash is still there, stretching across his cheek, a dreadful reminder.

Acting on a mere impulse, she reaches out and cautiously, tenderly traces it with two pale fingertips and he does not move, his glance buried in hers.

“Does it still hurt?” she hears herself ask, her voice slightly hoarse and low.

“No”, he answers without hesitation, unmoving, “it never has, unlike other things.”

She bites her lip and her eyes leave his. 

Her hand moves to lie flush against his skin now, folding itself around his cheek as though she tries to be his bandage.

“How long has it been?”

She has been afraid of this question, dreading to have clarity, to know the full extent of the aftermath.

She recognises his hesitation for she knows it far too well and she sees him turn his answer around in his head and she interjects, unwilling to be soothed or pacified.

“Ethan. Please tell me.”

He searches her eyes and his voice matches hers in his raw, low tone as he answers.

“Three weeks, roughly.”

She sharply draws breath as his answer is worse than what she had expected. 

But now it makes sense to her. 

The tidy, clean rooms of Grandage Place. Miss Hartdegen’s absence. The three men making dinner.

They must have restored the house to its normal order while she had been fading in and out of life.

He watches her features as they change from shock to a mild kind of sadness. 

He then reaches for her hand, the free one and envelops it in his own, without pressure. 

“None of this matters. You’re here. You’re alive.”

Her glance leaves his and she swallows. Then she looks up at him again.

“It is paradoxical, is it not? All of this I longed to say to you when you were gone.”

A shadow seems to cross his features, swiftly and it is echoed in his gaze. Quiet pain she knows so well from herself.

“And then”, she continues softly, “when you did return, I could not say them.”

His expression is strained now.

“Don’t take on you what is my fault alone.”

Her hand on his cheek trembles.

“Someone spoke to me about guilt not so long ago. He said”, she cannot keep her voice from quavering as she continues, “that I choose to feel guilty. It was an accusation, a reproach then. Like it was something foolish to accept one’s blame.”

“It is when it’s not yours to carry. Don’t burden yourself with it.”

His words soothe her more than she wants to admit. 

Her fingers come to life on his skin again, ghosting over it in a light touch.

“And that coming from you.”

His tiny grin amuses her and she looks away from his eyes, unwilling to give herself away just yet.

He leans into her touch, visibly more at ease now and her body feels light again, weightless as though he had taken from her what had kept it down. 

As her eyes wander over him, something crosses her mind again, something she had thought of ever since she had first left this room hours ago.

“Would you do me a favor?” she asks in a quiet voice and his gaze meets hers again instantly.

 

The surface has become prey to dust and Ethan has to wipe over it several times before the mirror becomes a mirror again.

She swallows, perched on a chair in front of it, her anxiety clawing at her. She straightens her back as though to convince her of her own idea once more.

“You’re sure?” he asks again.

“Yes.”

And Ethan steps back and comes to stand next to her chair and her nervous fingers tug clumsily at the soft, cream-coloured cotton of her nightdress until her left arm is completely exposed to the mixture of natural and electric brightness of the room.

She draws a deep, shuddering breath and then looks straight ahead.

Just below her left shoulder, an irregular horizontal line stretches over her pale skin. Its width seems to be not much more than a centimetre. 

Cautiously, she touches her left elbow and pulls it in front of her so she can examine the extent of the scarred wound.

Its size bewilders her and she is not sure whether it surprises her positively or negatively. The skin that has begun to cover the place where the bullet had entered her arm is oddly translucent and smooth to her careful touch.

“It is smaller than I thought”, she mumbles, letting the fingertips of her right hand brush over it. “For all the pain there was.”

“I wanted to keep it as minimal as possible, I really tried”, she hears Ethan say and then he huffs self-reproachingly. “Though of course Victor cursed me for aiming at your left arm instead of your right. Something about arteries and heart proximity I couldn’t repeat for the life of me.”

She looks up from the wound and their eyes meet in the mirror. 

A short silence stretches out between them before she speaks anew.

“When you left, I wanted to be mad at you. To be angry. I tried. But I never thought I could do it. Anger is such a vain emotion, isn’t it? And so empty, it leaves you with nothing.”

She swallows before continuing.

“And I wanted to keep you with me. So desperately.”

Now, she cannot keep the first tears from rising, even though she instantly tries to suppress them. She cannot bear looking into his eyes anymore.

“Then I thought it was simply too late.”

She pauses and closes her eyes, presses them shut for a moment and when she opens them again, the first tear rolls down her cheek.

“That there is a time for everything and ours simply had expired before we even knew what we were.”

Her voice breaks slightly at the end of this and in the same instant he turns to stand in front of her. Slowly, he kneels down before the chair she still sits on. 

She tries to avoid his gaze.

“Vanessa.”

It is hardly more than a whisper, raw and utterly him and there is so much pain in it that momentarily robs her of her breath and her resolve falters and cracks and collapses into itself and she lets his eyes find hers.

“I have always known what you are to me”, he says lowly, “ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been the only purpose, the only reason why I kept on living a life I long thought wasted.”

He pauses and she knows he fights the impulse to rest his hands on her shoulders and she longs to tell him to do it, to touch her, that he will never hurt her, but she only opens and shuts her mouth once, unable to process the meaning of his words. Could he truly think himself this worthless?

“You fought him, the worst of creatures”, she says, refusing to accept his dire self-reproach, the meaninglessness he thinks his life consists of. 

Her voice sounds too frail in her own ears. 

“You saved me from the worst of destinies when no one else could.”

“And yet I hurt you more than anyone else. And even if it’ll take all my life to make it up to you, nothing will keep me from trying.”

The expression in his eyes together with these words shakes her, so bittersweet, so pained and hopeful at the same time and they seep deeply into her, down to her soul and her chest is heaving with the sobs of hurt and relief she still tries to keep under control. 

“Oh Ethan”, she begins quietly without knowing how to continue.

She bites her lip and with each passing second looking into the warm brown of his eyes with all the emotion she sees there, unblemished, unhidden, exposed to her like he trusts her with them, she loses the hold on herself and at last, the words break out in a stifling sob.

“I’ve missed you so much.”

His hands touch her face, framing it tenderly as he looks into her tear-filled eyes that now mirror his own. 

He kisses her forehead next and her cheek and tastes the salt of her tears on her skin. Lastly, when he is utterly sure she wants it, he enfolds her in his arms and she rests her head in the crook of his neck. 

Both her shaking and her breathing grow slower, more regular with each moment she spends shielded in his touch, surrounded by his warmth. 

When she is sure she can breathe again, she breaks away slowly, unwillingly. 

Each of her hands lie against his shoulder blades, seeming small against his frame and they have resumed their trembling. She had forgotten her exhaustion.

But her eyes are captured by his and she longs to keep the moment, to cherish his nearness while they are both so unrestrained, so open, so raw and vulnerable. 

His gaze wanders over her face, carefully probing and she realises he must feel her growing weaker again.

“Vanessa, I think we should…I think you should lie back down. Get the rest you need.”

She resists the urge to groan in protest and sighs instead, faintly.

“We have spent so much time waiting for each other.”

“Don’t you think we have just stopped?” he asks and the fingers of his right hand brush stray dark strands behind her ear.

Her response is a smile, a tentative one and her right hand moves up from his back to his throat and lower until it stops to rest on his heart.

He answers her with a gesture of his own as he leans closer, cautiously and his lips ghost over the scar the bullet wound has left behind. 

He kisses the smooth, new skin there, lightly and without pressure. 

There is nothing sexual about his touch there; it seems to her like he wants to mend her wound, to seal the scar in its freshness, its fragility, the way it could easily open again.   
He wants to make it better, as though blessing it.

An exorcism of a different kind.

They linger. Another moment, another minute, another few seconds more.

Then, he carefully lifts her up and carries her over to the bed. 

He turns off all the lights and blows out all the candles except for one and resumes his place in the chair next to the bed. 

She props herself up on her right elbow with her last remaining physical strength and looks over at him through the semi-darkness.

“Have you…” she begins and her voice seems suddenly much louder than before and she lowers it immediately. “Have you slept in all these weeks? Truly slept I mean.”

He looks over at her and his eyes seem lighter in the dim half-dark.

“Other things have mattered more.”

“I’ve worn you out”, she concludes and she feels a small smile play around her lips.

His soft grin is enough for her.

“Would you…?” her voice trails off and all of a sudden, she is afraid of her own courage.

The half-formed question lingers in the air between them and she feels a blush slowly creep up to her cheeks and she is thankful for the semi-darkness.

The silence claws at her and she finally whispers a simple “sorry”.

He gets up and crosses the distance between them and she feels his hand on her hair, lightly.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s alright.”

He places a kiss on her hair and she leans back and shuts her eyes and exhales deeply as she feels the last of her consciousness leave her. 

The last thing she recognises is the slight creaking of the chair as Ethan sits back down and then a few of his regular, calm breaths.

And for the first time in what seems like forever, she is completely and truly at ease.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On what being clean means. To Vanessa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. I am honestly overwhelmed with your wonderful, heartwarmingly kind and thoughtful comments. I have been hoping for you to enjoy what I write here, but feedback of this beautiful nature I could never even have dared to wish for. Thank you all so much. I love writing this story and having such a wonderful readership makes writing pure luxury.

10

 

Even before she fully wakes, she knows it has been a long sleep.

As she opens her eyes, she sees that the indigo blue darkness of the past night has melted, escaped and elapsed into the milky white grey of a fresh autumn day.

For a short while she simply lies there, unmoving on her back like a soldier, fallen in an unknown field, lain to rest on a stranger’s bed. 

And yet the greatest, the only stranger she could name is her own mind.

Her head rests comfortably on the cream-coloured cushions, facing slightly to the right side of the room. 

She begins to focus on her breathing, examining it before anyone else can. It is as regular as it has been…images, feelings of the past evening slowly come back to her. 

His lips on her skin where…

She tenses and her fingers follow an impulse, a quiet, sneaking fear she needs to prove meaningless. 

Her cold fingertips brush the short sleeve up her shoulder and she turns her head to glance at the newly bared skin there.

It is still there, her scar. Her mind, her subconscious has not tricked her; her memories are to be trusted. 

This certainty calms her at once and she eases back into the cushion, her eyes falling shut again for a moment.

A voice had been there, in her ears, in her head while she had been asleep, uttering a sentence she has heard before, but she does not seem to connect the words with an image, a place, much less an event or a point in time.

Iesu amice.

And then some more.

Ora pro ea.

“Are you awake?”

Although she has thought herself alone in the room, his voice does not startle her. She blinks. 

It has been his voice. The words inside her head, the fragmented Latin imploration, voiced with urgency, fervour, like a plea – it had been his.

“Vanessa?”

She turns her head to the left and finally sees him there, only barely in the room as if hovering above the threshold, not meaning to invade the privacy of her sleep. 

She has noticed how illnesses tend to water down, to mollify the boundaries between people, when nearness emerges where it otherwise might not exist. 

He must think that becoming, giving her space, now that she is conscious. Back alive.

As her eyes meet his, she recognises the relief on his face and wonders whether he has thought her ill again, bereft of consciousness. Oh, how she longs to be completely alive. 

She feels a faint smile play with her lips and watches him return it.

“When will you cease this?” she asks then, her voice low and still a little rough.

“What?” he asks back, slightly confused, unmoving.

He will not come closer unless she wants him to, she realises.

“Looking at me as though I were halfway gone?”

An expression trails over his gaze, a serious answer to her question, but in the next second he evades it and his tone is light as he responds.

“’m I doing that?”

Her eyes wander over his face, his features and she nods.

“Much too often still.”

They look into each other’s eyes for another moment, before he gives her another carefree smile and walks over to the window, drawing back the curtains.

She watches him, his calm, familiar movements. 

He then insists on having Victor have a look at her first. “Before you go anywhere.” She considers mild protest, but discards it.

“Your vitals are perfectly fine, Miss Ives.” Plus a small, encouraging smile.

“I would advise you to take things slow for now though. We would not want to repeat last night’s incident, now would we?”

She smiles at him as she watches him stand up and retrieve his equipment.

“Certainly not.”

Victor is already heading towards the door, but turns back around. She can see the mischief hidden in those clear blue eyes before he even speaks again.

“Now, I would tell you to take care. But I have the slightest inkling Mister Chandler will see himself in charge.”

She wants to frown at him, but immediately finds his obvious enjoyment in teasing her infectious and smirks at him instead. He feigns an impish little bow in her direction and leaves.

When Ethan walks back into the room shortly after, she considers reaching her hand out to meet his, but suppresses the impulse. There is something she longs to take care of first. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she looks up at him. 

“I would like to bathe”, she says then, her voice softer than she herself expected it to sound. “I”, she adds then, in an even lower tone, “I want to feel clean again.”

When he comes to stand in front of her and reaches for her hand then, she is even more relieved than she expected herself to be to feel his warmth on her skin, his touch. It has felt like a lifetime since the last. 

“I understand”, he answers then, simply and she knows he does.

Her gaze leaves his and wanders over his hand on hers and she gently turns it so she can see his palm. She finds herself tracing his heartlines. 

His pulse thuds regularly beneath his skin as she does.

Ora pro ea.

She opens her mouth then, wanting to ask him – and does not. 

There are images, feelings tangled up along with these Latin half-phrases that confuse her and move her and roam around within both her heart and mind and she fears all she will end up doing is confuse him as well. And worry him, which is something she has done more than enough by now, she thinks. 

Later, she decides.  
There are so many “later”s with them, but instead of saddening her, tearing the ground away from below her feet like before, now these “later“s soothe her, excite her even.  
Because now they feel like possibilities, not long lost chances. 

They will no longer slip from both their fingers. She will never let that happen again and nor will he, she knows that now. 

Or she hopes to know it. So fervently.

And she traces the lines on his palm and stops still in her movement and speaks again, her voice clear, her tone soft, without meeting his gaze.

“I have begun to feel like that the past evening, you know.”

And she looks up and directly into his eyes again.

“Clean”, she whispers.

Something seems to go through him, an emotion, a tremor of some kind and he wounds his hand from hers and touches her check, cupping it tenderly like he had done back then, when he had told her she needed to learn to protect herself. 

It is an altogether different feeling now though which accompanies this gesture, she thinks she can feel his pulse tremble against her face and the complete absence of sadness in his eyes. 

Her hand, now without his to explore, tumbles and catches on the fabric of his shirt. 

She could pull him closer. 

He searches her eyes now, his gaze bared of himself. 

She feels something within her respond to what she sees there. He is so very familiar. Fragments of visions and ideas and impulses flow through her at that moment, images blending. 

It puts no strain on her, costs her no strength to sustain this, yet she closes her eyes, searching within her what he had sought within her eyes mere seconds before.

And there she finds them. His words have never left her. They have been there all along, lain hidden behind all their shared hurt and her lonely pain.

Sancte Jude, apostole gloriose, semper fidelis Iesu amice, ora pro ea.

Gasping for air, she opens her eyes, finding his only after several breathless seconds. 

With the silent vehemence of her reaction, he releases her from his touch on her cheek and her entire being strives against that and she gets up from where she had remained sitting. 

She keeps her eyes on him as he stands still and waits for her. 

He stays still, but his chest is heaving and his breathing irregular and for a second, she is sure they have thought of the same moment.

Their eyes meet again. A faint smile on her lips and she swallows, unwilling to cry.

“Clean”, she whispers once more and the expression in his eyes reflects hers and he stays still, solid and safe as she crosses their distance and leans against him, her frame flush against his chest, her ear on his heart and his breath on her hair. 

His arms don’t surround her just yet. He gives her space. 

She wants him to keep pulling her in. Drawing her in, closer. 

Simultaneously she knows there is nothing closer than what they are. 

Her scar does not ache brushing against his chest. 

It calms both of them, although she feels something within her overflown. 

“I’ll go run the bath”, he says then. His voice seems to come from inside her mind or even her veins, so familiar, as though swimming in her bloodstream. 

There is no touch he could release her from as they move apart without reluctance. It will not be the last time. 

Their shared, uncommunicated certainty of this makes her feel lightheaded and for a moment, she has forgotten where and what they are. 

As he leaves the room, she takes a deep breath to steady herself. But when she is sure her feet touch the floor again, it is still there. 

The weightlessness. 

 

She goes into one of the spacious bathrooms alone. Advised to call if anything is amiss or she starts to feel ill again. 

On her request, Ethan has taken two of her towels and several pieces of her clothing attire from the drawers in her old room and brought them into the bathroom in advance.  
She wants to avoid alerting any of the men for anything less than life-threatening. 

She locks the door. 

Slowly slips out of the nightdress and discards it. It lands somewhere on the floor and with that, her last remaining physical connection to the past three weeks. 

She does not take the time to observe her bare frame in the long mirror nor does she avoid it. 

All she recognises in a futile glance is how thin she has become. 

Her pale hipbones and her ribcage stand out even more than usual and her knees seem so close to the skin. 

The hollows between her upper and lower arms are blue from all the times needles have entered them. The good doctor must have felt like he was in a knitting course by the end of it, she thinks. 

It takes her some effort to sink into the water. 

She has never been too fond of water in general. 

Swimming is alright, when needed. But of diving she has always been afraid. 

Losing touch to the surface, to anything permanent, anything solid, anything that would not fade or fall away seems to her too similar to losing oneself for her to actually enjoy it.

So it takes her some effort to sink into the water and she takes a sharp breath as the water touches her skin. 

It is hotter than she has expected it to be and she needs several seconds to adjust to it, half considering getting right back out of it. 

But she takes another deep breath and focuses on what she wants. Becoming clean.

This bathroom is the only one of those in Grandage Place she is able to sustain being in for more than ten minutes. Because it is the only bathroom that is not completely white. 

There are patterns on the tiles, fading floral patterns in deep, dark colours, the colours of nightmares, forest green and blood red and blackish blue. Nothing she would choose to surround herself with, but still much more bearable for her than the sight of sterile white. 

She realises how tense she still is and tries to relax, letting herself slide lower into the tub, deeper into the hot water. 

She is suddenly uncomfortable with her nakedness, not having seen herself like this for such a long time and for a while, she avoids looking below the water’s surface. 

This notion confirms her of the need for this to be done – the need to spend time alone with herself. The need to become clean.

She leans her head against the brink of the tub and closes her eyes. Some of her tension vanishes.

When she is done bathing, she shaves, slowly, cautiously, only thoroughly enough to feel clean. There is not even blood. 

She washes her hair then, deeply inhaling the soft scent of her shampoo. 

Half of her heart wants to hate herself for the indulgence; the other half of her longs to be clean, so much so that it outweighs her self-reproach before it can influence her actions.

She puts her half-dried hair up in a loose chignon, with a couple of strands already falling back out of it before she is finished.

Her hands do not tremble anymore, although by the end of it all she feels shaky on her feet. 

She dresses, with quicker hands now, putting on undergarments – no corset – and a long-sleeved dress in a faded, blueish grey which instantly reminds her of that little bit of autumn sky she has spotted through the window.

She had told Ethan to take anything but black. 

He had looked at her. Smiled even, softly. And nodded.

She is not sure she can bear the colour black on her skin anymore. And it seems unworthy to her, after what he had done for her. It would be as though nothing had happened. When in reality, so much had.

 

Leaving the bathroom feels too much like reentering the world.

She longs to hear his voice after all this reclusiveness. 

Naturally, she looks for him in his/her/the room. 

When he is not there, she remains calm. 

She goes to the kitchen next. 

Then the parlour. Sir Malcolm compliments her on her appearance; she does not listen. 

“The good doctor has some business to attend at Bedlam hospital. He mentioned a colleague in need of his assistance, a certain…Was it doctor Jekyll? I am quite sure it was. He asked and I told him it was alright for him to go since you had fared so much better today…Vanessa?”

She is already out of the room and back in the corridor, her steps quicker now, she passes half-open doors, catching a glance into them, searching and not finding him.

She tries fervently not to think back to her dream, the nightmare about not finding him. He would not leave her. Not again. She knows it.

Up the stairs, she hesitates at the top of the staircase. Slowly moves closer towards the end of the corridor. 

The room she fears. The room that used to be hers. 

She swallows, approaching the entrance.

Her first instinct is to cross herself and her hand hovers there, numbly, above her breast.

“Vanessa?”

Relief washes over her and she turns around to find him standing where she had been, at the top of the staircase leading back down.

He seems to see it in her eyes and when she approaches him, slowly, her knees trembling, his hand is stretched out in her direction and it reminds her of another time he had awaited her like that at the bottom of a staircase.

“Let’s get back downstairs.”

She nods and they linger for another moment, their hands conjoined.

“You look good”, he says then and she can’t help her smile.

“You chose well” she replies and her voice sounds tender with it.

He chuckles softly as they descend the stairs.

“Happy coincidence. Or beginner’s luck.”

“Don’t underestimate your abilities, Mister Chandler.”

“I’d never.”  
He is so close that his amused voice seems to rumble through her. She looks at him from the side.

“Not true”, she replies then, simply, but she means to say so much. 

His gaze meets hers and they both almost trip over the lowest step.

 

Shortly after that, she stands with her back to him, looking out the window, curtains drawn to the side the way he had done it when he had woken her up.

The cobblestoned, grand place outside is almost empty, hardly any passengers.

“You have been in my room.”

She doesn’t ask this for she knows it. She wants to ask something else and he comprehends at once.

“Yes”, he replies, probing.

She waits for him to ask her. There is no way he could have entered her room and not have seen it.

“Your cross”, he finally utters, lowly and she draws a sharp breath of relief for him having understood and hurt for what the question is about, “It’s missing.”

She nods slowly, still facing the window.

“Did you take it down?” he asks and his voice is hoarse and low as he speaks.

She nods once again, not bearing to look into his eyes.

“No”, he whispers and his tone is so soft and she hears so much pain in it that she feels like it breaks her heart once more. He is hurt for her sake. 

She presses her eyes shut and feels the tears behind them rising again.

“Could I put it back?”

His question is tentative and barely audible as though he already knows what she is going to answer.

She shakes her head with fervour and bites her lip and hears him stand up from the chair he has been seated on. 

She takes a deep breath when she feels him standing right behind her and keeps her eyes shut.

“I have done the most horrible thing. With it. I…”

She pauses and opens her eyes. 

It hurts her almost physically, remembering what she had done that terrible morning when she had found them all to be gone. When each and every one of them had left her to be on her own. Even Him. 

“He will understand”, she hears him say, his voice firm and clear and full of conviction.

His hands are on his shoulders as she turns around to look up at him. What she sees in his familiar eyes is something she had not expected.

“Why does it hurt you this much?” she hears herself whisper, taken aback by how much emotion she sees on his features.

“Because I know how much it means to you”, he replies quietly.  
“And because I know it is my fault you lost your faith in Him. Your faith was the one constant in your life giving you strength and I took it from you when I left, didn’t I?”

“Ethan”, she interjects, her hands on his shoulders as well now. 

There is so much she wants to say. She wants to tell him his disappearance from her life had not been the reason why she had fallen from faith. But she realises instantly that she would have lied to both him and herself by voicing any such statement.

Instead the one question that has been burning on her mind ever since that fateful day, breaks out of her.

“Do you think He can forgive me?”

His eyes wander over her face, but there is no hesitation.

“Yes. He will.”

Her relief at his conviction, his sheer belief in her ability, the possibility of her being absolved, redeemed, shakes her. He takes her into his arms and she wants to hope, so fervently, that he is right.

After some time, she pulls away, gently and looks back up into his eyes.

“Sancte Jude, apostole gloriose, semper fidelis Iesu amice, ora pro ea.”

She has whispered the sentence and smiles by the end of it.

“This is what you exorcised me with, is it not?”

She sees him swallow, a mixture of emotions trailing over his face, until he smiles in astonishment.

“Yes. Yes, it was. How did you…?”

She smiles once more.

“The words simply came to me. When I woke up this morning, they were suddenly present within my mind. I feel like they have always been there, waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” he asks softly.

She moves her hand up to trace his forehead, along his temple and down to his jaw. He lays her hand on his heart, before she answers.

“For the moment they would no longer hurt me, but strengthen me. The moment you would be there. In your presence, they don’t hurt.”

He shakes his head in half-amused, half-astonished disbelief and his gaze wanders over her and back into her eyes once more.

“I never thought it would work”, he utters, his voice so low she barely understands and still, she does.

“Yes”, she whispers, “Yes, you did.”

He draws her closer once more and she does not know how much time they spend simply standing there in this embrace, when they both hear the front door falling shut, only a silent thud from where they are, but still.

She is the first to move back, if gently, but Ethan catches her hand before she can turn around.

She looks up into his eyes again.

“He will”, he repeats, his voice hoarse from not having spoken for a long while.

She hesitates, bites her lip. A few more seconds pass before she finally nods. He leaves the room after her, following slowly.

 

“Miss Ives”, Victor notes with visible joy as she enters the dining room. 

She is surprised to find dusk already falling beyond the windows. She smiles at him in response.

“You look much better, much more…” he seems to search for the right words to convey his meaning, “like yourself”, he finishes and smiles again.

“Yet at the same time you do not. Is that actually light blue you are wearing?”

She grimaces at him as they both take their seats at the table. Sir Malcolm has once more offered to see to the cooking, something she still feels like she needs to get used to.

“It’s grey”, she objects strictly, unsuccessfully trying to hide her mirth.

“In any case”, Victor answers, rearranging the silverware to meet his own standards of table setting, “it is not something I imagined you to even have in your wardrobe.”

“I thought we’d start off slowly. Wait until you see the bright yellow”, Ethan’s voice comes from somewhere behind her, the tone of it thick with amusement.

She shakes her head incredulously, but a small laughter escapes her lips. Ethan sits down in the chair next to her again.

“You are impossible. Both of you.”

It is made worse when the two men grin at each other across the table and she shakes her head once more, pouring herself a glass of water.

“I’m joking obviously”, Ethan says, almost apologetically, “There’s no yellow”.

“Shame”, Victor replies, laying it on thick with the disappointment. “I would have liked to see that.”

“What spectacle am I missing out on here?”

Sir Malcolm has entered the room with a pot in his hands, smoke softly circling upwards from it and Ethan quickly gets up to help him.

They entertain only a light conversation at dinner; to all their questioning, Victor only briefs mentions this colleague of his whose methods he does not quite understand. Sir Malcolm gives a quick recount of the Explorer’s Society meeting that had taken place the night before and she…

She simply listens and lets her eyes wander over all of them and eats properly for the first time in three weeks and thoroughly suppresses the ever resurging impulse to lay her hand on Ethan’s thigh or his hand or his shoulder or his back or that of his chair even…

“What about you, Vanessa, would you like to go there?”

The unexpected question in her direction shakes her from her momentary haze and she swallows and looks up into Sir Malcolm’s inquisitive gaze.

“I’m sorry, I did not…”

“We were just saying there’s an orchestra performing on several nights this week”, Ethan begins to explain, when Victor interjects with vehemence.

“It is not “an” orchestra. That would be like calling Tennyson “a writer”. It’s the Bohemian orchestra. Masters of their trade.”

“Whatever it is they are, there is a performance tonight and I was just mentioning that I would like to go there and I asked if anyone feels the overwhelming desire to accompany me”, Sir Malcolm explains, smiling whimsically by the end of it.

She exhales, cutting the last potato on her plate in half.

“I’m sorry, I am…having trouble concentrating.”

At once, Victor glances over at her and she can see by the look in his eyes that he sees the patient in her again.

“Then you had better stay here, Miss Ives. After all, this is the first day you”, he pauses, “are back. To normal I dare not say since that is what we all are certainly not.”

This dry observation earns him a smirk from everyone at the table and after dinner, they all part ways for the evening.

 

She watches him strike the fire in his/her/the room. The first flames exude a soft glow as they begin to bite at the wood that seems so dark and lifeless against the vibrant spark of the first fires.

It takes him longer than she had thought to get the fire to continue burning without his assistance and she does not want to hover behind his back, waiting, so she sits down at the edge of the bed. Her fingers tug at the sleeves of her dress.

If she truly goes through with her wish, her need to not wear black anymore, there would not be much else for her to wear. She had scowled playfully at the men’s delight in her limited array of clothing colours, but they had had a point in what they had noted. 

It is a random thought, but she suddenly thinks of how the colour had been brought back into her life. 

It had been missing from it for almost a decade, ever since that fateful night before Mina’s wedding. 

All at once, after all this time, there appears the possibility to wear beige again, light grey, soft violet – white even.

It is him, she thinks. He has brought the colour back into her world.

She hears him mutter something under his breath, something sinister directed at the lump of wood that will not spark fire and her gaze wanders over his face, his features, tense in concentration as he peers into the beginning fire.

When the stubborn piece of wood finally surrenders, he lets out a low sound, triumphantly and at last looks over to where she is sitting only to find her watching him. His cheerful grin turns into a more questioning smile, softer now, asking her…what?

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

She returns his smile, albeit faintly.

“How?” she asks back.

He gets up from where he was kneeling by the fireplace and as he stands up, she has to look up at him to see directly into his eyes.

He approaches her, slowly.

“As though I were halfway gone?”

Her breath catches as she realises he has rephrased what she had asked him this morning.

She can only keep her gaze buried in his as he sits down on the edge of the bed next to her and gently reaches for her hand, laying it lightly onto his, their palms barely touching.

“I’m afraid”, she finally admits, looking down on both their hands, the words tumbling from her lips with her voice quavering.

He does not move.

“I know. I’ve noticed.”

She looks back up into his eyes, unsure.

“Ask me”, he says lowly then and she wraps her fingers around his hand. He is the one beacon, ever there and ever glowing, in the darkness that has surrounded her for so long.

She takes a deep breath before she speaks, her voice stronger now, but still too soft in her own ears.

“I told you that I want…that before…I want to be clean.”

He nods and all she sees on his face is earnest understanding. He does understand it, her, after all.

She exhales and asks it.

“Would you pray with me?”

He does not hesitate.

She kneels down on the wooden floor and he follows her. 

And they pray the Lord’s Prayer together, in English and Latin, three times. 

And at last, she feels clean.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On things falling into place. And a rather unexpected return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. Thank you all so much for reading and/or commenting on this. I hope you’re all still enjoying reading it as much as I enjoy writing it. Feedback is very very welcome, as always. This chapter includes some light physicality which I do not consider to be above the T rating. I must apologise if this is soapy in any way – I thought of someone while writing this and my feelings ran away and dragged me along. Also I’m Eastern European, so drama is basically the D in my DNA.

11

 

She has often thought there is a way for everything to fall into place. 

When she was younger, a mere girl still, she had thought of it as a puzzle coming together, pieces falling next to or into each other, attuned, made fit by an unknown, unseen force. Puzzle pieces that had always been predestined to fall exactly where they would do eventually.

When she had been robbed of that idyllic thought somewhere sometime in her youth without even truly realising she had, she had begun to think of the same notion as something else. 

When she had spoken to God and another had answered her and from that point in time onward, she had come to think of that coming together of predestined things as mercy. Because she had come to know how frequently they did not. And with what cruelty they did not.

She remains in her position as though still in prayer, kneeling on the ground, her forehead almost touching the old wooden floor. 

They are both still now, soundless. She believes to even hear the soft thuds of the first drops of light rain falling onto those old cobblestones.

And even though she knows it cannot be late into the night, she is tired. She feels like a weight has been lifted off her shoulders, an invisible weight that had haunted her, pained her with dragging, constant and ever-present hurt much more than any shot wound. She has been left light now, yet again almost weightless. 

But still she remains kneeling, cowering low on the ground, replaying their words once more in her mind. 

She cannot help thinking about how their voices had sounded together, how much they had contrasted in tone, but matched in emotion. She had instinctively felt like they belonged next to one another, their voices, just as much as their souls. 

A part of her wants to scold herself at once for this thought, romantic as it is. But another, the greater part of her simply knows it to be true. 

From out the corner of her eye she sees him move first, but stays where she is, her fingers entwined still. Breathing in and out without any weight on her chest or her heart. An entirely new feeling.

No evil spirit had answered her words that had been so tense, frail and frightened first, then calmer. No evil spirit had claimed her or threatened her through her prayers; she is unscathed in both mind and body - and most of all, He had not rejected her. She had felt it.

She might not have gone through with it, for fear, had he not been there. But whenever she had felt herself go numb, limp with fear, she had remembered him by her side and listened to his low, grave voice and continued.   
But she knows she could not have done it wholly without him. 

The lupus dei, she thinks. How could she still be afraid when she feels him by her side?

His fingers brush against hers, gently, and she looks up to find him crouching before her, cautiously touching her still folded hands.

“Was it alright?”  
His voice is softer, lower than it had been minutes before in their prayers. 

She hesitates, letting the moment work on her, the absence of fear and pain and the presence of calm and trust. Then, when she senses he is about to become worried for her yet again, she looks up into his eyes, straightening her back. 

“Yes”, she breathes, hardly a sound.

She recognises the smile in the expression of his eyes, but he still holds it back. He is cautious. With her. With this moment. 

Something within her instantly responds to the way he is so effortlessly careful, how he is so far away from her, neither claiming nor invading what is hers and yet so present, so close, so intimately woven within her. There and gone, far and close. Outside and within. 

She loves him for it. She always has. 

From the moment he had touched her hand when everyone around her had not even been able to look at her. 

“Is there still fear?” he asks then, his voice more defined now, but still careful.

She glances down upon the small places where his fingertips lie lightly against her own skin.

“Not anymore”, she hears herself answer then and the relief that hangs between and above and around them seems an almost tangible thing for both of them. 

“I was told once that people distinguish the loving God from the punishing God. Since I have always thought Him loving, I never was truly afraid of Him, you know. I only ever was afraid of myself. And afraid I had”, she pauses, searching for the right words, “lost Him with the things I’ve done.”

“But”, she adds, looking deeply into his eyes, her voice lighter now, not louder, only less grave, “now I could feel him again. With you I could.”

His gaze leaves her eyes and wanders lower to rest on her folded hands. 

He shakes his head, courtly, quickly and as he speaks again, she can see an expression trail over his features, a shadow, hardly visible. People other than her might not even have recognised it as that which it was, but she knows him better than to miss such notions.

No more self-reproach. No more guilt, please. She doesn’t want to see or hear or even think about him hurting himself anymore. She thinks it, but she dare not say it.

“That’s got nothing to do with me”, he finally says and partially confirms her silent hunch. “He’s there for you because within you, there’s nothing dark. Nothing evil. You’ve always loved Him purely, no matter what’s been done to you, something few people ever do. He understands what’s in your heart, Vanessa.”

“As do you.”

These words have come out in a whisper, taking both of them equally by surprise as they glance back into each other’s eyes. 

Her breathing seems loud in her ears now. 

He is silent, but the expression in his eyes tells of a mix of emotions he does not voice. 

She could not have helped it, could not have held the sentence back. It has been an impulse, a need. As compulsory as breathing.

He exhales loudly, looking down on her hands again. His voice is so low she barely understands.

“You’ve always trusted Him with all you are.”

“As I have you.”

Another instinctive, whispered interjection and this time, her reaction comes quicker than his. 

Without ceasing to look into his eyes, she unwinds her hands, almost losing his touch, but she does not for she balances his palm on her fingertips now turned upwards.

His hand, though much larger than hers, now seems to hover above her skin, no weight on her hands and still so very close.

She wants to give him the weightlessness he has helped her find.

She concentrates on his gaze, a mix of emotions blending together, roaming about in this familiar warm brown. Can he still not accept that he is as forgiven as she?

“I have told you so long ago”, she begins, her voice surer now, though still low, “that I accept you. That we’re together for a reason.”

Relief courses through her as they both utter it at the same time. “God’s plan.”

For a moment it seems as though time has ceased to exist, halted.

They even are in the very same room again. Kneeling on the hard, wooden floor opposite each other, barely touching and utterly still.

She swallows and looks straight into his eyes, falling safely into the depth of his familiar gaze.

His breathing is irregular and hers quickens to match his. 

She can see from the expression in his eyes that he is holding himself back, focusing on finding the words to convey a message she finds impossible to predict. And she lets him, waits patiently.   
They have time now.

He draws a deep breath and presses his eyes shut for a second before looking right back into hers again.

“I’ve always wanted to protect you. From the moment you were first sitting there across me.” 

His eyes trail off slightly to wander over her face as though he were once again searching to confirm that that is what she needs – protection. Through him. 

He seems to find it again there, hence his gaze falls naturally back into hers, deeply and remains there.

“It wasn’t even that I wanted to – there was no decision about that I ever remember making. It was much more than that, from that first sight on. I knew”, he pauses again and now she senses he is suppressing a more intense reaction, maybe even tears.

“It’s a need. It’s always been. An impulse. Like breathing. Like you don’t think about doing it, you don’t decide about it, you simply do it. Something inside you just tells you to because it feels right. I’ve never felt anything that visceral.”

His eyes lower and he glances down at their hands and he lifts his hand off hers and as she begins to feel faint fear sneak up on her – maybe he will distance himself and she can only watch him do it. 

All momentary insecurity is made meaningless when he touches her again, taking both her hands into his. Warmth begins to seep from his skin into hers and all of a sudden she realises how cold she has felt without his touch.

“But you were in love with her, were you not?” she gets the question out in a low tone she herself almost cannot hear.

His brows draw together in mild confusion, seemingly unable to concentrate on any other people belonging to the world beyond these walls.

“Who…?”

“Miss Croft.”

He exhales, his breath shuddering as he understands.

“Maybe. At that time.”

His features look strained now and he glances down upon their hands as though he is having trouble understanding, much less explaining feelings that seem so far away for both of them now. 

When he speaks again, his voice is stronger as though he has confirmed his own premonitions.

“Now I know she was just my attempt at a way out. A fire escape, leading away from a place I didn’t understand. A place within me.”

He looks back up into her eyes as he continues. 

“When I met you, I’d long grown weary of my urges. Tugging and tearing at me constantly, pulling me into directions I hated and turning me into something so…horrible. It all had made me cynical, skeptical of my impulses.”

She glances back at him and her understanding of the things he had just voiced runs deeper than he possibly imagines. 

“I think I know what it feels like”, she says then, considering both their hands. But she senses he needs to go on speaking now, to get something out of his system he had spent so much time turning over and over in his mind, so she stays still.

And sure enough, he continues.

“Everything I touched, I destroyed. Everyone around me, I hurt. I couldn’t trust myself with anything. Much less with you.”

She lets the words sink in for a moment, before she responds.

“But then what you did changed that, didn’t it?” She swallows, adding in a whisper, “the exorcism.”

The word hangs between them and seems to shake both of them to their core. 

She feels the first tears begin to rise and for once, she does not try to suppress them. She lets him see how deeply this moves her, without restrictions. 

And the expression on his face changes as he takes his right hand from hers and reaches up to brush loose strands of her hair behind her ear in such a familiar gesture, his fingers lingering on her skin there.

“You believed in it. You believed in me. And I trusted you because somewhere inside your heart you knew you could do it”, she says and he nods slowly, his face showing that he is just as deeply touched by this as she.

She swallows, her mind going back to something she has been wanting to tell him for such a long time now.

“During the time I was ill”, she continues then, “when the other attempted to take over me, to claim me, he…he uses the guise of others to trick his victims into giving in. I feel it is by far the cruelest kind of persuasion.”

She feels him searching her face, but avoids meeting his gaze.

“One never knows where the boundaries are. When it begins and when it ends.”

His fingertips brush against her temple, ever so lightly.

“What happened?” he asks, the tone of his voice low and grave.

She inhales deeply and looks up and straight into his eyes.

“He came to me wearing your face. Tempting me. What I believed to be your eyes, your touch, your kindness – it was his.”

The look that she watches now spread over his features very nearly makes her cry. A mix of confusion and horror she has only ever seen on his face once. Twice. In this room and in the slaughterhouse. 

But then there is also something else she cannot quite place right away. She realises that he understands what her revelation means.

But she cannot stand to see that expression on his features any longer and reaches out, touching his face as he had touched hers, but with more certainty. 

“It was only then, as he had assumed your guise, your face, your touch, that I could make sense of it. That I understood what it is I feel for you. When you were the one he chose to show himself as.”

His expression changes yet again until all the pain has vanishes and all that remains is silent understanding, something between her and him falling into place and with what she sees in his gaze now her veins are set aflame, slowly. 

She has felt like this with him before, the moment they had stood opposite each other in the house on the moor, when the storm had begun and he had told her to let everything true come out. But there is something new about this feeling – she feels safer with it now.

And still, he holds himself back with silent resolve.

She admires him. Almost. By now she feels like a bird, tender, half-bruised wings rattling against iron bars that are their bodies and their propriety. And the fear of her affliction that she can never completely abandon.

“Vanessa.”

Her name has always sounded so different when voiced by him, altogether different than when others spoke it. 

It is a bad name, Vanessa. She had heard the story behind it years ago. Maybe even when she had been a girl still.

A rich man such as Sir Malcolm had had an affair with a woman and named her Vanessa so nobody would find her real name in their letters, the name for a clandestine love, a love that must not be, that should not exist. As hidden as it was forbidden. 

So Vanessa had become a synonym for all things improper, all things stained and fallible. The things that should not exist, but do due to mistakes made by the most fallible nature of all, the human one. 

Such as the woman she had become in the grasp of the dark brothers.

But ever since she had met Ethan, she had noticed how different her name sounds when pronounced by him, softer, all darkness, all scandal, all danger taken from it. It has an utterly feminine and yet strong sound to it when he says it like he has said it now. 

And she feels herself melt into the touch of his hand on her temple, her gaze still deeply within his. 

Sometime soon, her body will feel empty without him. She knows it.

Something between them falls into place.

She can hear and feel his pulse quicken, no longer calm and collected as it has been before. Silently. Invisibly.

She believes she can feel his fingers tremble against her skin once more as he takes a shuddering, deep breath and she finds herself imagining for a moment, a second, what it would be like to feel his breath on her skin. No more distances.

“Vanessa”, he utters then, his voice low, hardly above a whisper, but her name so very defined, flowing off his lips so naturally.

“There’s one thing I want to ask you.”

She swallows, almost overwhelmed by the depth of his gaze for a moment, but her stance never falters. She wants to, needs to, longs to be right where he is. 

She has been nothing but honest to him ever since he had returned and so she will wait for his every explanation, his every admission, his every doubt. She will listen to him bare his heart, turned inside out, stripped of all restrictions. 

She accepts him for who he is. She is meant to. And she does.

“Do you”, he finally asks then, “feel clean now?”

Her insides are overflown with something that does not explain itself to her in that moment. He must know how important this is to her, so he asks it. 

Now. In that moment. Now that they are so close. She knows what he is asking.

And she nods, her heart nearly beating out of her chest.

“Alone with you I always have. And I do now. Yes.”

He lets out a breath none of them must have even known he has been holding. The touch of his fingertips on her temple softens, only slightly and he nods barely visibly.

Within her, nothing remains still.   
He must feel her erratic heart giving her away when he gently moves his hand that has been on her temple further until her ear is framed between his thumb and his index finger, sheltered in a warmth that is so familiar it almost makes her lightheaded.

She falls back into his eyes and sees the faint, incredulous smile on his lips, lopsided, utterly familiar.

“I never thought you could forgive me. I dreamt about it all the time, but I never thought I could be blessed with your forgiveness.”

She smiles softly at his words, reeling from his touch as she never had before.

“And I with your belief in me”, she replies and watches his smile fade, replaced by a more serious expression as he gently moves his right hand further until it comes to rest in her neck, his thumb somewhere in her hair. 

Her breath catches as he slowly, cautiously, moves closer. His presence invades all her senses. How she has longed for him. For being with him like this.

Her hands move instinctively as they come to lie against his shoulder-blades. An almost embrace. 

His left hand moves up to graze her shoulder with tenderly increasing assertiveness, as if steadying her.

Their gazes stay entwined until he moves closer still and when his lips hover above hers and his breath touches her mouth, her own breathing does not seem to comply with her anymore and neither does her heart, beating erratically.

“Ethan”, she mutters, her voice thick with emotion.

And he searches her eyes and finds them and an instant passes. Seconds. What she sees in his gaze now is something unknown to her, something she had never seen before. 

And his heart must beat just as irregularly as hers as his breath dances on her skin when he speaks now.

“Vanessa, I love you. I always have.”

Her heartbeat stops for a split second, only to continue beating just as irregularly she hears a faint whimper of relief and joy and something else altogether leave her lips before she can help it. 

He instinctively reacts to it and strengthens his hold on her as if to support her.

“And I you, Ethan”, she whispers, her voice quivering and she knows he has waited for her for it is only then that he crosses the last remaining distance between them and kisses her.

The first kiss after so much time and pain, it is incredibly tender and yet she feels like it slams sweetly, deeply into her core and her fingers tremble against his back as she holds him. 

He responds to her openly visceral reaction by tracing circles onto the skin at the base of her neck, caressing the skin there so softly it shakes her and when they break apart momentarily only to draw breath, she is overwhelmed and a low sound escapes her lips, something somewhere between a sigh and a moan, all her emotions openly, freely poured into it. 

When he hears it, his grasp around her tightens ever so slightly and she is warm and weightless in his embrace. 

Pure, vibrant excitement courses through her veins along with her blood now and when her lips release his in order to breathe, she believes to feel him shiver beneath her lips and her touch and she instinctively knows he shares it, feels the same exhilaration. 

She gasps into his half open mouth as he runs the fingers of his right hand through her hair, still so tenderly. Still safe.

“You”, he mutters then, his voice seems even lower to her than usual and she looks back into his eyes and sees them gleam with something that he must be seeing in her eyes too.  
“You’ve no idea how I’ve been wanting to do this.”

His hoarse voice dithers against her skin and the incredulous bluntness of his words immediately hinder her from replying anything elaborate and once more only a choked, half suppressed sound slips from her lips onto his and slowly, she moves her hands up his back until they lie against both sides of his neck and his pulse throbs underneath her fingers.

A moment of caution passes before he follows her, moving his right hand lower down from her hair and onto the slight hollow between her shoulder blades. He kisses her once more and she leans in.

All her nerve endings are raw, open and vulnerable – although lost in his nearness, her whole body is alert. 

And that is why she feels it. She opens her eyes and knows it to be true.

At once she breaks their kiss, leaning away only slightly. She is gasping for air.

At once, his arms soften around her and he searches her gaze, immediately as alert as she.

“What is it?”

She cannot meet his eyes for her glance begins to wander around their surroundings, dazedly taking in the half-dark room. Searching.

“Vanessa”, he tries again, “what’s wrong?”

When she does not find what she has been looking for, she finally meets his eyes, shivering slightly.

“Someone’s there. Someone else.”

“What?” he replies, the look on his face a mix of shock and confusion. His hands on her shoulders now, instinctively providing the safety she needs.

“Do you mean…?” he asks then and she knows he does not want to.

“No”, she answers quickly, utterly sure of it.

“Not within me.”

His hands grip her shoulders now, firmly.

“Stay here. I’ll go.”

His posture is confident and she realises he has become the protector again, so she does not voice any protest. She swallows and nods.

He takes her hands and helps her up. As she sits down at the edge of the bed, her eyes meet his again.

“We’ll be fine.”

With that he leaves the room and she cannot stand sitting still anymore, so she gets up and paces, her hands fidgeting. She takes a few breaths to calm herself, but then she cannot hold herself back anymore. 

Quietly, she strides over to the door and carefully opens it, only a crack. The corridor is only illuminated by the lights streaming out from other rooms. 

She leans against the doorframe, closing her eyes, listening in.

“I recognise my all too sudden reappearance might seem most outré to your most extraordinary assembly, but I do hope I am not too much of a disturbance at this nocturnal hour, Mister Chandler.”

Sophisticated, elegant English with a heavy, very endearing French accent. A bewildered smile spreads over her features. Mister Lyle.

She half considers walking straight out and up to meet him, hovering above the threshold. But she lingers, uncertain. 

Of course, she is delighted to know he has returned – that seems to be a recurring theme within her life these days, returning – but at the same time she is not quite sure she is able to withstand any interaction with anyone else but him right now.

She feels bare, not in a vulnerable way, and naked, not in a physical way.

And half of her mind has hardly even already processed what has just taken place between her and Ethan. 

She feels good in a way she never has before; but because it is an entirely new feeling, she is unsure of how to reconcile it with the public person she tends to appear as. 

And even if Mister Lyle has seen her in the worst of states, she still wants him to see and know she is doing well. Better than that even.

She cannot walk up to him and entertain a light conversation with him as she could have any other day. This feels different. 

She feels different. Sensitive, but not the way she had before with her weaknesses, her ailing, her affliction.

Sensitive in an agreeable way. She is comfortable with that feeling, but she is insecure of how to handle it while facing the outside world.

So for tonight, after something she feels is something so deeply intimate, she decides to abstain from exposing herself to the outside world just yet. 

They have time now.

Slowly, she walks back over to the bed and sits down. 

Absentmindedly, she wonders how long it will take the two men. Maybe Mister Lyle would take up one of the guest rooms. 

She would make amends to him the next morning over some more or less elaborate breakfast.   
She looks forward to seeing him again; she has missed him, his smile, the way he was so gifted at making the people around him feel comfortable when they were everything but that.

She sits on the edge of the bed, tugging at the long sleeves of her dress again. The room has gone cold with the beginning autumn night and she is freezing now. 

She does not concentrate on her hearing for she would have understood all their conversation and she does not find it becoming in any way to eavesdrop. He will tell her, will he not?

She feels tiredness pull at her and for as much as she tries to ignore it, she finds herself stifling a yawn and even that newfound kind of excitement that seems to flow as an undercurrent in her veins now cannot shake off her exhaustion. 

After all, as the good doctor had mentioned, it is her first day back alive.

Slowly, she walks across the room, taking a fresh nightdress from one of the drawers. 

Ethan had begun to move necessary every-day pieces of her clothing from her old room to this and she cannot help the smile that ghosts over her lips as she sees which pieces he had taken, following her new “no more black” rule.

An unsurprisingly small amount of dresses she sees there. 

Still smiling softly, she closes the drawer and undresses, her movements languid. She truly is more exhausted than she had thought. 

She pulls the light cotton over her head, her hair falling completely free in the process. How the warmth of his hand has felt on them. 

She lies down then, pulling the blanket up to her shoulders.

Just as she is calm and her breathing regular, she watches him slowly open the door and close it behind him. She props herself up on one elbow, facing him.

Their gazes meet. A silent second before a soft grin spreads over his features. She can even see it twinkle in the brown of his eyes.

“Mister Lyle.”

She responds with a smirk of her own.

“Thank God.”

He chuckles lowly, perching on the edge of the bed now.

“Oh yes. I have shown him one of the guest rooms and he was content with it. He’s only just come back from Egypt, he mentioned. He was glad to be able to stay here, he said.”

She watches as a different expression trails over his face, he seems more serious now, thoughtful.

“He seemed different though. Distant. Not angry or anything of that nature, something else…disappointed.”

She bites her lip and reaches out until her right hand touches his shoulder and he follows her touch and turns slightly to look into her eyes. His gaze is even more serious than his voice had sounded.

She sighs softly before she begins.

“When you were gone”, she pauses when she sees his immediate reaction, the shadow passing over his gaze and she swallows, continuing, her voice low and a bit hoarse.  
“When everyone was gone, he looked after me. He was there for me. He tried to…”

She exhales audibly and her gaze leaves his and her fingertips trace invisible patterns across his shoulder, seeking to soothe him, to lessen the impact of her recounting events of a darker time. A time both of them equally dread being reminded of.

“You need not take it on yourself, Ethan. He knows you would never have left had you had another choice. I am sure we will be able to clear up all…complications.”

He searches her gaze and finds it. 

“I should be the one comforting you. Not the other way ‘round.”

A smile plays around her lips as she hears these words and she slowly moved her fingertips upwards from his shoulder until they lie across the hollow between his clavicle and his throat.

“Oh, you are”, she answers then, lowly, smiling softly, “all the time.”

His eyes gleam with something that has filled her dreams for such a long time. 

She watches him reach out and cover her hand with his, never breaking their shared gaze. She lets him take her hand off his throat and in front of him. 

He unfolds her hand and kisses her palm. The gentleness of it slams into her and her breath comes quicker.

She closes her eyes.

“Ethan.”

She inhales audibly, going over the words once more, another silent rehearsal. 

How is it possible that she is still so fearful of something that feels so deeply natural, so utterly ingrained in her heart? 

And that very heart flutters within her chest now without cease, leaving her no room for boldness.

“Just tell me.”

The simple honesty of his words moves her, so trusted, so familiar. Safe.

And she opens her eyes and sees directly into his, willing him to understand without a sound.

“Would you like me to stay?” he asks in a low voice and he is only reading out loud what she knows has been written all over her gaze. 

Another weight is lifted off her – and he must feel it for he smiles - and she nods, way too vehemently for a simple confirmation.  
“Yes.”

She lies back down on her side, facing him as he removes his shoes and waistcoat. She watches his every movement, seeking to memorise it.

Maybe it is still there. The way for everything to fall into place.

He takes care of the light and comes back over to the bed, slowly pulls the blanket back and lies down on his side next to her, at a careful distance however.

Their eyes meet and she feels a smile ghost over her lips. He returns it and after a few moments have passed, he stretches out his hand, brushing her hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering on her temple. 

Her tiredness tugs at her again, and she relaxes with his gentle gesture, but she does not want to fall asleep. Not now.

So she reaches out to touch his shoulder, softly first, firmer then and she slowly moves closer. 

His reaction is immediate and as instinctive as hers, cupping her chin and she brushes her lips against his. 

She realises how her fingers tense against his skin and a fresh wave of the same excitement from before begins to course through her with their kiss. 

Her hand moves up to his throat once more, savouring the feeling of his quickened pulse throbbing against her fingertips and her breath falls into his. 

She feels as safe as before with him and her trust in him and her blood are one and the same, her love for him ingrained in every fibre. 

But she feels the first signs of herself losing the last of her control and slowly, gently, her lips leave his and she pulls away, suddenly feeling unable to meet his gaze.

Her breath shudders and his hand slides softly over her shoulder to rest against her back as if steadying her. 

She draws a deep breath and swallows, still uncertain, her eyes not yet meeting his. She clings to her determination now.

“There is something you should know. Something I must tell you.”

Her voice is too frail for her own liking and she feels him searching her face and finally, she finds it in herself to look into his eyes and what she sees there causes her heart to give a small leap. It is not disappointment or confusion; he understands. Even though he cannot even know…

A lopsided smile on his lips and his hand warm and safe on her back.

“You look tired”, he says, his voice hoarse and low from not having spoken for so long – and something else entirely that she knows they both suppress for the moment.

“Understandably so”, he continues then, “Maybe we should sleep now and talk about it tomorrow?”

She only nods and smiles at him softly and her hand comes to rest against his chest, just above his heart, calming her with its regular beats.

She will have to tell him what she fears might happen with her if they go any further. 

Half of her heart immediately wonders how to tell him and whether he will understand. Whether she herself will understand and figure out what to do about it or how to proceed.

But the other, more visceral half of her heart is soothed by his very presence and she realises that falling asleep has never before felt as safe as it does now.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I will not watch those I value most rip each other apart. There is much you can demand of me, but not that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. Thank you once again for your continued support! I’m very glad you’re giving me feedback and sorry for the delay in updating. A lot of stuff has been going on in my life these past weeks and I was all nerves and anxiety and sleep deprivation and drained on the creative front. Thus, this chapter is short and not my best (13 will be longer and better once I’m fully back into gear). I’m glad to be writing again and I hope you stick with me and this story and enjoy the read!

12

Which of the sounds reaches her first the next morning she would not be able to rightly say. 

There is for one the sound of raindrops, thrumming heavily and loudly on the rooftop and against the window glass. 

There is something else too; voices. They are most definitely in argument, although hushed, voices kept low as if not to…

Both of them are familiar enough and she opens her eyes. 

The room is bathed in gloomy, blue half-darkness and for a moment she believes it to be night still. But the sounds of dishes clinking and clanking and those voices tell her otherwise. 

She would not have to look. One of the voices audible from the kitchen is his. So she finds herself alone. 

When despite herself she lets her glance trail across the room and over the bed, she realises there is no trace of him anywhere. 

A feeling rises within her and she is not quite sure what it means. 

It seems eerie to see the space she shared with him mere hours ago so devoid of his presence and that very eerie notion of absence, emptiness, reminds her of a certain morning she does not want to be reminded of yet again. 

While she gets up and pulls adequate clothing from the drawer, doing her best not to eavesdrop on the agitated conversation in the kitchen, she decides she will insist on him leaving something visible, tangible of his being in this room. 

Be it childish as it may, she will get him to leave something behind, if even just a waistcoat or one of his woolen cardigans thrown over the back of the sofa. 

She feels the last thing she can bear these days is this room utterly devoid of him. And this room especially.

Nobody seems to notice her silent walk across the corridor to her favourite bathroom and she is quick with her routine, pulling a green dress over her head which reminds her of the very nature she misses. 

Sometimes it bewilders her how she has grown up amidst the most beautiful, picturesque greenery, the beach and the sea only to find herself caught in a metropolis now, a city black and grey as a polluted lung.

She straightens her back and does not waste another second, but leaves for the kitchen.

 

“I am not sure, gentlemen, if we should be having this conversation. At least not presently.”

Sir Malcolm stands with his back towards the window as he attempts to take over a discussion that has long elapsed his grasp.

“It’s fine, Sir Malcolm. Everyone has the right to say what he thinks.”

Ethan sits on one of the kitchen chairs, rather on the edge of it, ready to get up at any minute. His words are polite, but his voice sounds tense despite himself.

“Why, I have not come all the way from the country of the pyramids to insult your guests, please be assured of that, Sir Malcolm, bien sûr”, Ferdinand Lyle replies, having rejected the offered seat at the small kitchen table across from Ethan and instead leaning against it, upright.

“Although”, he continues, his glance trailing from Sir Malcolm’s towering figure towards Ethan, focusing on him.

“I must admit to having been overwhelmingly surprised at encountering you of all people in these accommodations last night.”

Ethan meets Mr. Lyle’s eyes without hesitation and his answer is calm, subdued. He is aware of his position, the cause of which his own actions have been. 

The one action, that is. The very action every one of the men present in this kitchen is talking about without talking about it. 

Leaving Miss Ives. Deserting.

“I have made a mistake, Mister Lyle, and I have no other wish but to be open about it. And try to make it right, as much as that is possible.”

“And he has been repeating things of the like time and time again ever since he has returned”, Sir Malcolm interjects then, his tone decisive, “and I doubt anyone has any interest in hearing them once more. Grandage Place may be home to a group of sinners joined in their desire to atone for their mistakes, but it is by no means turning into a confessional box right before my eyes.”

His voice has withheld the same grave authority the other members of their group have grown accustomed to; yet there is a new layer to it, especially designed to fit this new situation they all find themselves in now. 

Even if they are back together and no longer apart, even if the darkness seems to have vanished for the time being - nothing is as it was or has been.

There is no going back from this moment.

Her words replay in Ethan’s mind and he closes his eyes for the fragment of a second, thinking back to the time she had uttered them. When he opens them again, all three of them seem even more serious than before.

“That is all fine, Sir Malcolm and you clearly are the one to talk about these matters as it is you who holds the reigns in his house”, Mister Lyle answers after a short shared silence.

“I shall never doubt that nor seek to interfere with your methods. It is only that I view what has occurred in a slightly more”, he pauses and casts another glance at Ethan now, “critical light for I have been more directly exposed to the”, he seems to search for the right word now, “drastic nature of it.”

Ethan’s mouth is but a thin line now, lips pressed tightly together. As though he needs to be reminded when he knows all too well that the state he had found her in had been his fault and his alone.

He looks over to Sir Malcolm who counters his gaze with a barely visible nod. It is Ethan’s turn to speak now and he better should.

“Mister Lyle, with all respect – I’m aware of what you’re saying. And you know I would never do anything to harm her. I thought I was sparing her.”

Ethan cannot quite help the way his voice begins to falter near the end of this, but his look at Mister Lyle is steady. It still hurts him how wrong his decision had been. But as much as he would like to, he cannot reverse the past.

He recognises the understanding that is beginning to spread over Mister Lyle’s glance, but he also remarks how the other man quickly and efficiently suppresses it and replaces it with something else. Cold, distant reproach.

“You see, Mister Chandler, taking flight is always the easier option. There is probably no man in this city more familiar with this tendency. My own flight is not a thing far in the past either. But it is one’s own weakness and all it does en fait is cause pain. Not ourselves, but those who love us even in spite of our own cowardice.”

His tone has been polite, but the words cut sharply through Ethan, detachedly spoken and yet full of subtext for Ethan to read between the lines. 

His anger that had lain dormant for so long is threatening him now, rising up to his heart and mind and before he can help it, he stands up, maintaining the distance to the other men who both keep their eyes on him.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Ethan asks, his voice low and hoarse and the anger is pulsating now, quickening his pulse and throbbing within his veins despite himself.

“Do you honestly think I don’t know what I have done?”

“Gentlemen…” Sir Malcolm’s attempt at an interjection is ignored by both men equally.

“You have not seen her, Mister Chandler.”

All coldness and detachment has left Mister Lyle’s voice now and all Ethan recognises in it now is sadness. 

Sadness for a dear friend who he has seen hurt, broken and utterly alone. The look in his light eyes reflects his tone as he remains with Ethan.

“Your pain and the guilt you feel tell of the honorable man you are. And your feelings for her, obviously.”

He pauses for a moment before continuing.

“But still you have not seen her then. Such a radiant, extraordinary, kind woman…torn. Completely. It took but a glance to break what heart I had left, Mister Chandler.”

The words hit him as Ethan looks into the eyes of a man who has treated all of them with nothing but affection. 

His mind runs wild with things he wants to say and does not know how. With images, too, memories of seeing her when she had been hurt, nearly broken. Even thinking about it, imagining her pain is maddening. And yet he is angry still, confused. 

A short silence spreads over the three men and it is looming above them like a dark cloud, a shadow none of them is able to shake. 

Mister Lyle’s gaze trails over to Sir Malcolm who seems withdrawn, reluctant to take part in their argument, pointedly not looking at either of the other men. 

The toxic mixture of anger and pain claws at Ethan, clinging to him with the familiar sting of guilt.

Mister Lyle’s eyes land upon Ethan’s again.

“All this, Mister Chandler, have upon seeing you late last night made me wonder how Sir Malcolm has accepted you as a guest in this house again.”

“He has not. I have.”

Her voice is soft and slightly hoarse. Her words enter the kitchen before she herself does and as the men immediately turn their heads towards those words they have come from where she is standing on the threshold, bathed in the blue half-darkness of the hall.

The rain suddenly seems to thrum even more loudly against the windows of the old house.

All three men look at her in heavy silence, having been caught in the middle of their argument. 

About her, the woman in the doorway. Her voice almost frail. And yet, her words have a greater presence now than the men’s toughening conflict. 

Mister Lyle is the first to regain his composure and a joyful smile spreads across his features, although not without a tinge of guilt.

“Miss Ives!”

She takes a step forward and into the light of the kitchen, maintaining a distance to all of them still. 

The look upon her face together with how fragile she seems in that long green dress with the tight long sleeves and her paleness make Ethan want to groan in regret. How much of this has she heard?

“It was my decision.”

She keeps her voice composed although she has heard enough of their argument to bring tears to her eyes that she does not want.

She folds her arms before her chest to strengthen her posture and looks at Mister Lyle directly.

“It has been a source of debate in this house, please do not think otherwise, Mister Lyle. At last it has been on me to decide and I have made a decision.”

She feels Ethan’s gaze upon her, but she does not break her eye contact with Mister Lyle. She wants to clear this out herself.

Mister Lyle seems to consider answering, but she continues, her tone softening only slightly.

“Now I shall be disappointed and saddened by your opinion about what I have chosen for I have certainly missed you as a dear friend.”

She smiles at Mister Lyle now, a tender smile that does not quite balance out the tears shimmering in her eyes. He beams at her in return, but the regret is still written all over his gaze. She continues then, her voice firmer.

“Yet there will be no discussion on the point that Ethan is permitted to stay…” she pauses and lowers her gaze, slightly, taking a breath and then adding, “where I am.”

As she looks back up into Mister Lyle’s eyes, his reaction is so palpable it would have made her smirk had the circumstances been different. 

She feels Sir Malcolm’s glance upon her as well and knows at once that there are questions in his light eyes she would have to answer. Sometime. But certainly not now. 

“However”, she says then, her voice once more composed and firm and her eyes trail over each of the men as she speaks, “I will not have any more discussions of this nature in this house. I will not listen to you wound each other. Dissect each other’s errors.”

She swallows and feels the tears threaten to fall from her eyes now.

“If there is one thing I have learned from the past months, it is that once you begin to tear yourself to pieces, darkness will be the only thing within reach to offer repair. We fall prey to the worst things when we are alone in an empty room with only our guilt to keep us company. And I will not” she pauses and feels the first tear trail down her cheek, “watch those I value most rip each other apart. There is much you can demand of me, but not that.”

A short silence settles over their assembly. Finally, Sir Malcolm clears his throat and looks at all of them.

“She is right. We have always been strongest together, gentlemen.”

Ethan nods.  
“Of course.”

Mister Lyle nods in agreement and she looks at him and smiles softly.

“Might I now officially welcome you back, my dear Mister Lyle?”

“But bien sûr, Miss Ives!” he replies, beaming again and she crosses their distance and embraces him and all tension seems to vanish from the room along with the ominous shadow that has been lingering above all of them. 

 

Mere minutes later, they sit in one of the living rooms before a quickly lit fireplace. 

She speaks first.

“What brings you here, Mister Lyle, if I may ask? The last time we have spoken, your departure seemed despairingly definite or so I understood it.”

All eyes are upon Mister Lyle’s features now, who in turn seems uncertain of what to answer.

“Well, Miss Ives…as I have heard, you have been subject to a particularly horrible series of events of late.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she nods slightly. She is not sure how much and how detailed she desires his knowledge of all that has happened to be. 

“Besides”, Mister Lyle adds, feigning a throwaway gesture with a hand, “the land of the pyramids is not all it is brushed up to be, à vrai dire.”

That gets smiles from his audience. But she detects something within his hesitation to divulge his reason to come back and decides to probe softly.

“But that is not all” she says.

“Oh, is it ever?” A small, bittersweet smile accompanies these words now. 

And she knows what he means and they all wait for him to continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S.: I love Ethan and Ferdinand Lyle almost equally much, but the way I interpret the characters and the way things went in season 3, I thought this altercation necessary.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On missing people and certain chances. And the feeling of suffocation within the walls of a confined space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. Thank you as always for your feedback & for sticking with me! I hope you continue to enjoy the read. I just wanted to say that this, as are all of my written pieces, is only my own interpretation of the characters and stories in the show. I think due to the cancellation/planned end/whatever you choose to call it, there are things that have been left up to interpretation and things that we have not got thorough explanations for. Which I think is a positive thing, since it leaves room for one’s own take on it in fanfiction. So, again, this is merely how I understood the show and characters. I’m not claiming my interpretation to be the only right and true one – it’s just mine mixed up with my own ideas. : ) I just want to do my own take of a continuation, because it is literally my favourite show and I don’t want to imagine a world in which it ceases to exist. So, enough of that, I hope you enjoy and I’m thankful for your time and thoughts.

13

“There is something you must be aware of. I have told you what…well as we have translated the monk’s writings we have discovered what is foretold to happen when…”

Ferdinand Lyle’s voice trails off and she feels the sudden urge to pull her own hair in anticipation. She has the impression of having to drag every single word out of him and by that she is certain he is not about to bring anything positive to their shared table.

“Forgive me for being blunt, Mister Lyle, but I will just ask you – why have you come back? And what brought here exactly?”

She sees him shift almost imperceptibly and his gaze wanders over each of their group before landing back on hers. 

“Miss Ives, I had the worst of feelings. You may call me superstitious, ridiculous by all means, but I thought of you and I…A shadow seemed to hang over your face in my mind, something darkening the beautiful soul I know you to have.”

“I felt something coming, Miss Ives. I felt something bad happening.”

By the end of his admission, she finds herself staring at him, biting her lip. Could he possibly fathom how fatally right he had been with his mere hunch, the feeling in his guts that must have hit him when in Egypt still, that feeling that seemed so hard to explain?

Mister Lyle sees his listeners’ expressions change and tries to lighten matters up at once.

“Now ridicule me with all due disrespect, I beg you. You all seem to be…well, fine and dandy and I did not stumble over huge debris on my way to this sinister beauty of a manor.”

“Well, you did not see this house three weeks ago.”

Victor has entered the room without anyone witnessing his entrance and all eyes turn to him.

“Why, doctor Frankenstein, how delightful that you should join our conversation!” states Mister Lyle and stands to shake his hand.

During their rather formal greetings, Victor’s eyes trail over to where she is sitting and after a professionally probing glance, a doubtful expression sneaks across his features, something akin to worry she knows so well, but she shakes her head at this almost imperceptibly.   
He sits perched on the arm piece of the old leather sofa then, albeit reluctantly.

“So I presume”, Mister Lyle’s glance wanders across his company and his spirits seems to sink by the second while evaluating what he perceives of their uncomfortable silence, “that what has actually happened is indeed the very thing what we all feared. What we fought against.”

“Christ, yes!” utters Ethan from the chair on the far right in an exasperated tone and she finds it hard to blame him for his impatience. 

They have had to deal with such darkness and while creatures prone to darkness themselves, their individual strength finds limits. Having to drag through every single word of what has taken place is just as tedious.

The urge to soothe him stirs within her, such a familiar impulse. Sometimes she even feels like it is something she was created for, so deeply rooted, ingrained as it is within her bones. An original purpose. She will only be able to fight it for so long. It is something she will have to live out sometime. When it is time to.

She looks over to him while she speaks next.

“It was I who let it happen, Mister Lyle. He tempted me. I had given up resistance. I knew not what to fight for.”

She feels all glances on her while the only one she looks at is Ethan. 

Mister Lyle lets out an audible gasp and she casts her eyes down.

“But Miss Ives…I must say…does that mean….are you? You cannot be…”

“She is not”, interjects Sir Malcolm at this very moment and Mister Lyle turns to look at him, relief written all over his features.

“She has not transformed. The doctor has observed her physical state at all times. He can confirm this.”

Sir Malcolm glances over to Victor who in turn nods assuredly.

“She is not a creature of darkness. And in all honesty, Mister Lyle, although the past weeks have put the question in my mind, I have had more pressing worries than to wonder why”, Sir Malcolm finishes.

Silently, her entire being revolts against having the others talk over her head about something only she has experienced. 

At the same time, shame tugs and tears at her, digging its nails into her skin with increasing fervour at even the thought of what they are so theoretically conversing about.

“Well, as we were deciphering the prophecy, our results were not only that Amunet and Amun-Ra bring forth the annihilation of mankind. You might remember the part telling of the lupus dei.”

“Do think this is why she is…still alive? Still human I mean?” asks Sir Malcolm, addressing Mister Lyle once more who counters this reasoning with a small, pensive gesture.

“I say we shall come to that conclusion. Although to determine this, I should think we must know…well…the extent of…you know…”

The last part of his sentence sounds terse and he looks over to her once more, visibly uncomfortable.

She instantly knows what he is asking and she meets his gaze without hesitation, the shame burning inside her, cold, blue fires long familiar.

“But I presume you were able to kill the creature?” Mister Lyle asks before she can answer his previous question, as if diverting.

“No.”

That comes from Ethan this time, low and gravely pronounced. At once Mister Lyle’s gaze lands on him, features drawn in utter horror.

“It must be done!”

“You don’t say.” 

Ethan’s court response lacks all spitefulness, it is only bereft of energy or power. A fact they all well know, so easily spoken, yet so unattainable for the time being.

“But then it is even more wondrous how Miss Ives should be…well, alive for lack of a more suitable adjective. I do think”, his gaze meets hers again, still as visibly uncomfortable as before when formulating his question.

“The extent of your altercation with it might be useful knowledge. So could you disclose if he…well, did something to you or something?”

His voice has got flimsy by the end of this, but she sees no way to amend his embarrassment when she is burning from the inside out with her own feelings. 

Her glance at him is steady when she answers, her voice low and devoid of emotion.

“He bit me and had me. Slowly, on the floor of the bloody museum. If this is what this gathering needed to know.”

The others’ glances last on her and all of a sudden she feels like she is suffocating. She wants to gasp for air to fill her lungs, but the oxygen in the house seems used up and no longer compatible with her body.

Victor seems to realise it first. She feels his eyes on her, the examining doctor glance again.

“Miss Ives is not well. We might want to continue this at a later time.”

“We need to get a grip on things as soon as possible, doctor” objects Sir Malcolm then, “it appears we have to form plans and that is to be done now, with Mister Lyle present.”

“Oh, if you were able to tolerate my short, sturdy frame for a little longer, Sir Malcolm, I shall be glad to stay in the chambre you kindly offered to my disposal”, says Mister Lyle in Sir Malcolm’s direction and their talk seems distant to her now, further away.

“I want to go outside”, she says, her voice a stranger to her own ears and stands, immediately grateful her legs do not betray her.

“Let me come with you.”

She has not realised how much she has missed his voice.

When you miss someone, you always miss the person completely, never only a detail, but everything about them, from the way they smile to the way they open a door. 

You miss the shade their eyes have, something so exact, so strictly attributed to them and them only. There is never a shade quite like the other. 

You miss the twinkle in their eye when they smile. The mischief hidden. Or the seriousness, the honesty those eyes withheld. 

You want to see that again and say all you have never said. 

You want to wrap your arms around them and fool yourself into believing they can never leave again this way. 

You want to see these eyes and feel this smile directed at you and you alone and it might be the most selfish, the most childish thought, but you want their love. 

Because you know what it felt like to miss them.

And now, his voice resounds in her ears and she cannot but look at him and nod. As though he needs to wait for her permission. She would never get it into his stubborn, guilt-ridden head that he never again needs to ask for her to allow him to be with her. 

So she only nods and walks past all of them, towards the door, towards whatever it is she meant by outside.

She feels him behind her and then next to her, but she does not look at him, not even when she pulls a coat she has not even really looked at over her shoulders with numb fingers, fumbling with the buttons in sudden clumsiness.

“May I?”

His voice is close and she feels it resonate within her and without looking at him, she lets go of the buttons still undone and takes her hands down, lets them drop to her sides.

His fingers don’t touch her while he buttons up her coat and she stands before him, still and motionless, breathing in his scent while his nearness calms her somewhat.

“Leave the first two. I can’t breathe”, she mutters.

“Alright”, he replies. 

“We’ll stay close by. Just to be safe” she hears him add in a low tone then.

“Wherever, I just need to get out of this house. It’s smothering me. All of it.”

 

The rain has ceased when they tread onto the pavement in front of Grandage Place. 

The grey and very autumnal city streets around them look like they have been drenched, like she and him were the only survivors of a flood, the two people on Noah’s arch who step out into the aftermath and find the roads deserted, all others abiding in the safety of their homes until they can be truly sure the deluge has stopped.

Without really looking out for the direction, she simply starts walking, maundering in a slow pace, folding her arms across her chest.

He keeps up with her as effortlessly as always, strolling next to her, his hands in his pockets and his mind yet somewhere different.

When they reach the end of their street which leads onto a smaller path surrounded by old trees, she stops in her movements, taking in several deep breaths of cold air, soundlessly. 

At last, the feeling of something or someone violently clutching her heart within her chest ceases; she no longer feels like her lungs have been chained to her ribcage.

“Why are you with me? I could have gone alone”, she says then, not looking at him, her voice still oddly detached even to her own ears. It sounds wounded, she realises, toned down.

“You didn’t want to”, she hears him answer bluntly and she feels a small smile play with her lips despite herself. He has read her right and it strikes her with the same kind of bewilderment it always has.

“No”, she answers.

“And I didn’t want you out alone.”

She exhales deeply and releases the strict posture of her arms and continues maundering along the path and when she realises he is keeping a distance, she stretches her hand out to him only barely and he takes it and walks next to her again. His skin is warm around hers.

“Mister Lyle is right. I ought to have killed him when I had the chance to”, she says lowly as she feels him slow their mutual pace in sight of the next tree. 

Offhand, she notices then that she has long lost her bearings.   
They must be well away from Grandage Place now, but when she turns to look back over her shoulder, she believes she can still see the dark outline of the old manor across a sky that does not become day.

When she turns back to glance at him, she finds him focused entirely on her, looking straight into her eyes.

“It will be done, Vanessa. I don’t know when, but I will…”

“Sh.”

Her movement has caught him off guard as she holds two fingers before his lips, barely brushing his skin.

She sees him swallow with the change, their sudden nearness. His eyes search hers and he finishes his half-spoken promise in a grave tone.

“…kill him.”

Her fingers move from his lips to his cheek, lingering there for a moment, then tracing his skin slowly, as though wiping away blood he has spilt and will still spill.

“The dark creatures may exist”, she utters then, her eyes wandering across his features, taking in the familiar sight of his wound, the once bloody gash that is becoming a scar.

“They may all exist, even the worst of them. None of them I need to see perish by your hand or any other’s. If I dare wish for anything, it is for us to be together. Without sorrow.”

He lifts his hand and tucks a stray strand of her hair behind her ear, his fingers abiding in the crook of her neck.

Now, his eyes wander across her face as though wanting to memorise it, while recalling a memory already made another time. 

“Happiness you mean?” he asks and she can hear the smile he does not show.

“Yes. So…unfamiliar a thing for both of us, isn’t it?”

“However close it is possible for us to get to that – we will”, he says, his voice so low it is barely audible, but the words he has chosen do not need loudness.

“I keep making you make promises”, she whispers then.

A soft, lopsided grin plays with his lips.

“Do continue, Miss Ives.”

She smiles at that. 

 

He takes her hand on the way back.

“I asked you, a while ago, whether you miss your home”, she says, speaking for the first time after shared silence. 

He waits for her to continue and she looks at him from the side.

“The way I felt before – when I felt like I was suffocating within the walls of the house – do you not feel like that all the time?”

He meets her gaze.

“Well, I’d lie if I said I didn’t miss anything of it, I guess. The openness maybe, yes.”

“Vast, open spaces? Miles and miles to the next human being?”

“Yes.”

They have almost reached Grandage Place, when she gets the thought she has gone over so often in her head to leave her lips.

“When we both need to get out – maybe we will need such a place. And maybe then you’ll show me.”

She feels his eyes on her as she keeps her glance directed at the house.

“Would you like that?” he asks and she believes to hear something deep in this tentative question, something she has felt in his touch the night before.

“I thought about it these past weeks, you know. When I was in pain and you were there. I kept seeing you. A different place. A place of earth and sunshine. Warmth.”

When he keeps looking at her in silence, she glances over to meet his gaze, a serious expression on his features.

“How did you feel then?”

They have reached the doorstep and her fingers touch the keys in her pocket.

She looks at him and lets go of the keys.

“It healed me in a way. I think.”

He comes to stand opposite her in front of the door.

“With you I miss nothing. But I’d escape to warmth with you any day, believe me.”

She smiles and knows she will keep this thought safely locked in her mind until the next time she needs to know there is still room to breathe for both of them, in a faraway place.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a dark evening and even darker thoughts. Vanessa is revisited by someone who shows her his idea of her future and presents her her greatest fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. I hope you enjoy the following chapter 14. Thank you for reading!

14

The rest of the day passes in a daze for her. 

There is hypothetical talking and talking and talking about possible theories and things to come. 

Several times she resists the urge to dig her nails into her skin and Ethan seems to feel it for he helps her wash tablecloths that do not truly require washing. 

By the end of the evening, the rain has picked up once more and Sir Malcolm and Mister Lyle exchange theories about ancient Egyptian and African culture. It is around that time when Victor excuses himself to his own studies, biding them all good night. 

She immediately wants to do the same and lets her gaze trail over their small group still engaged in lively conversations in the map room. 

She looks over at Ethan who has joined Sir Malcolm’s and Sir Lyle’s musings about ancient history when Victor had left. He does not seem to notice what she tries to tell him wordlessly. 

She wonders if she can radiate without a single sound that she needs to be elsewhere now. With both her body and her mind. 

She almost feels the childish impulse to reach out both her hands for him to take them. 

It is only when she gets up from where she had been sitting when he turns to look at her.

“If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I would like to turn in for the night”, she says softly.

She feels Ethan’s eyes wander over her face, searching. Mister Lyle and Sir Malcolm do not seem to notice his glance.

“But dear Miss Ives, it is only 9! You make rebels of us all maintenant.”

Smiling, she touches Mister Lyle’s shoulder, lightly.

“Do enjoy your soirée, Mister Lyle. I am truly glad to have you back with us here.”

He counters her words with a bright, joyful smile and she takes a step back in the direction of the door.

Her eyes land back on Ethan’s and the question in the warm brown is palpable. Do you want me to….? 

She softly, almost imperceptibly shakes her head no. She is not even sure she will be able to find sleep at this hour, but she wants to be alone for now. 

Questions roam within her head. And images. Talking about the dark master and her own actions have brought them back even despite all her efforts to keep them at bay and far away from her consciousness. 

Now, there is a certain kind of hollowness these thoughts have left her with and she longs for calm, the familiarity of his room and maybe, hopefully, sleep.

“Goodnight, gentlemen. And thank you for all your help and plans. For worrying about me.”

She turns around and leaves the room without giving either of them much of a chance to respond.

 

Wide awake, she tosses and turns. Lying still in bed strains her. 

She draws the bedsheets up to her chin and feels ultrasensitive. 

It seems to her like all her scars sting, the one from the bullet wound and then the old one, the cross branded in her back. 

When she manages to close her eyes for a moment, she feels the sharpness of fangs against her throat, opens her eyes in shock just before they can sink beneath her skin. 

She shifts to the other side of the bed, taking a few deep breaths. And she dares to close her eyes once more.

 

A dull ache throbs in her head and the metallic taste of blood lies heavily on her tongue. Has she bitten her lip?

It seems to her as though she has been blindfolded. 

Somewhere within her, she knows it can’t be dark. It is not night. She knows it is day. 

She opens her eyes, but her vision does not get much brighter or clearer. But she can see something glowing in the dark. 

Candles. Small fires in red glasses. It must be a cathedral, she thinks.

She swallows hard and tries to search the vast space for something, anything. 

All the pews are empty. This cathedral drenched in almost complete darkness seems utterly devoid of life.

The pain continues to throb in her head and her hand trembles slightly as she touches her forehead. As hot as in fever. But she does not feel ill. 

Indeed, she feels completely alive and that alone confuses her. This smells and looks of death and yet, there is such life in her. 

She closes her eyes once more, trying to find something, anything close. 

And finally, there is something echoing back to her. It makes her start and her eyes flutter open and she knows that he is there.

“Ethan”, she calls out, her voice laced with the first forerunners of panic.

“Vanessa, dearest.”

The voice is bodiless and it seems to resonate from all around her. Shock creeps into her body, down to her bones, mixing with the blood in her veins. 

She turns her head to look at the ceiling which she does not seem to find. Is it truly a cathedral then?

She wants to speak, furiously. But her lips feel sealed and her tongue paralysed. She cannot speak for herself.

“Waiting for you was”, the voice begins again, now more palpable, with more fervour, “torture, my dearest. Exquisite torture, black as pitch and red as the blood which I crave. You will too, so soon. I shall wait no more for you. None of your lovers shall.”

She swallows once more and begins to run. Forward. Anywhere.

He laughs, the dark one and the space seems to reverberate with the sound, before he speaks again.

“Vanessa. Why are you still searching? You promised me. No more running from what you are.”

She stops still as she hears these words, but her heartbeat continues to race.

“Where is he?” she asks, finally finding her voice again.

“As good as gone, dear Vanessa. Is it not familiar? The feeling of him leaving you in the human flesh?”

She breathes heavily, staring into the darkness before her and there is nothing, nothing to see and not a sound and for a second she believes him to be gone.

The shot rings in her ears and courses through her being, from her ears to her legs. 

She looks down her own body, numbly seeking for a wound. And even in the half-dark she realises that she is covered in blood. 

She does not understand. She is alive. She does not even hurt. 

Yet there is fresh blood smeared everywhere on her dress and even her skin, her hands, her cheeks…she looks back up from the floor. 

And then she sees him. 

“Ethan”, she whispers, his name dying out on her lips as she screams.

He lies before her on the dark stone floor, dark blood streaming from a wound in his chest. 

She sinks to her knees and touches him, her fingers running over his body which grows number and colder.

She whispers his name again and he looks at her, for a second, before his eyes close again.

She yells his name, seeks to warm his cold skin, desperate to save him.

And somewhere above her, the dark one is laughing. Waiting.

She screams.

 

“Something tells me you haven’t quite understood the profoundness of your role in this yet, Mister Chandler”, assesses Mister Lyle and there is a tilt to his slightly amused voice.

“And something tells me, Mister Lyle, that you’re feeling the effects of this”, he replies with a smirk, holding up the bottle of Sir Malcolm’s good cognac. 

Mister Lyle counters this with a small laugh and a throwaway gesture.

“Why, Mister Chandler, I am completely immune! But”, he leans closer to Ethan now, in a conspiratory tone, “you must be aware that you are indeed the lupus dei!”

Ethan looks over at where Sir Malcolm is currently standing, studying a map of the West Indies.

When his glance meets Sir Lyle’s again, the other man seems more serious again.

“It is prophecy. Older and wiser than all of us could ever be. You are her”, he begins anew, laying his right hand on Ethan’s knee to support the urgency of his message, “salvation, Mister Chandler. And she is yours.”

Questions circle around in Ethan’s head as he listens to this and he attempts to sort through them in order to find the first and most important one, but all he gets out is “Mister Lyle….”

That is when they hear the scream. It pierces Ethan’s ears as violently as his heart and resonates through the vastness of the house. 

“Oh my…was that…?” utters Mister Lyle and Ethan and Sir Malcolm look at each other instantly, a mere second before they start running.

“We shouldn’t have let the doctor leave”, mutters Sir Malcolm while they both head to the place the scream originated from, leaving the speechless Mister Lyle behind in the map room. They are both not sure how much of this he should get to see.

Ethan is unable to think of a reply. 

His pulse is erratic, his heart pumping adrenaline into his every fibre. Fear grabs him and it seems like an iron weight now, dragging on his every limb.

Please don’t let it be the illness again. Please. Don’t do this to her. Not again. 

When they have reached the closed door to the room, both men halt in their pace when they realise there is silence beyond the door. 

“I think you had better go in first, Ethan. I will wait right here should you need help”, mutters Sir Malcolm after a moment has passed.

Ethan looks at the older man and were he not this worried, he might have reacted more to the words themselves and the way Sir Malcolm does not “Mr. Chandler” him in this moment. 

Now, he only nods and puts his fingers on the door handle and slowly, quietly enters the room. 

The sight of her is simultaneously better and worse than he has expected.

She is in bed, although huddled together in the smallest shape and space possible, her arms around her legs and her whole body seems to be trembling with emotions she suppresses.

His carefulness wears off quickly and he does not waste much time looking at her from the distance, but approaches her, uttering her name, softly.

Only then does she seem to realise she is not alone anymore, but she refuses to look him in the eye for a long while and does not speak a word, shivering violently, clutching her frame as though holding herself together still.

He tries it again.

“Vanessa.”

She still does not meet his eyes, but there is a faint whimper he believes to hear tumbling from her lips as he tries to remember the last time he has seen her this frightened. 

She seems completely in shock and as he sits down next to her, he sees the marks of dried tears on her cheeks and her bloodied lip. She must have bitten it in sleep.

He reaches out, slowly and gently, and lays his hand on hers that is clutching her left shoulder like her life depends on it. 

“Tell me what’s wrong, Van, please.”

At hearing that, she finally turns her head to look directly into his eyes, exhaling shakily. Her body still doesn’t cease trembling.

“It is truly you”, she mutters and her voice is just as fragile as the rest of her appearance, rough and hoarse from the screams.

“Of course” he answers, squeezing the hand of hers he has a hold of, seeking to calm her, but when her eyes trail across his face as if to verify his statement and put the very last doubts to rest, she begins to shiver violently again and fresh tears gather in her eyes.

“Ethan.”

“I’m here”, he answers in a whisper while worry still keeps his heart imprisoned and he does not know what all this means. She looks so deeply distraught and it pains him, fear clawing at his guts. What is wrong?

A moment, a second and she begins to cry, sobbing violently and he draws her in his arms, fully embracing her and she cries like he has never seen her cry before.

“Sh, it’s gonna be alright”, he mumbles close to her ear, holding her while she holds on to him, “We’re here. Together, Van. Was just a nightmare you had.”

She does not stop crying for a long time, her fingers tracing his skin as though still proving that he is no apparition, no manifestation of something within her mind. 

He can feel how exhausted she is, how she struggles for her breath and he holds her close and he feels her shifting in his embrace, so she can lay her ear against his chest.

“Try to tell me. What happened?” he asks without pressuring her, softly as though spoken to himself.

He feels her take a deep breath, before she finally whispers.

“With all my darkness, I never could take the light from you.”

She swallows hard before she continues.

“Your heartbeat. I can feel it. May I keep hearing it?”

“All night”, he replies lowly, but not less worried. What has shocked her like this?

He holds her tighter once more, his hand somewhere in her hair, brushing it back softly, before he speaks anew.

“I won’t leave you. Let me just tell Sir Malcolm what’s going on, he’s really worried about you. As is Lyle.”

For a few seconds, she does not seem to react, wordlessly holding onto him and he looks down to see her face. She still looks so desperate.

“Don’t be scared. We’ll stay together no matter what will become of us, Vanessa. It was just a bad dream.”

Slowly, softly, she disentangles herself from his embrace, only so much so that she can look into his eyes. 

Her still frightened gaze wanders over his features before it comes to rest in his eyes and she swallows as another tear trails down her pale cheek. 

The look in her eyes is grave and her voice even more so as she finally speaks again.

“I did not dream it, Ethan. I…” her voice breaks slightly as another tear falls from her eye.

“I saw it.”

 

End of Part 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After I’ve been turning the thought around in my head for quite a while, I have decided to turn this work into a series named A Lighter Place. I still have many ideas for a continuation of the stories of characters I love dearly. This show has helped me on a personal level in ways many people around me have not and I find it endlessly inspiring. I have mentioned before that I’ve started writing this piece as a continuation post season 3 and I think the first part – Ethan’s rescue of Vanessa and her recuperation - has come to an end here. I plan for this to be a three part series with my takes on how Vanessa and Ethan’s story continues. It will involve Ethan’s lycanthropy, Vanessa’s wish for a more permanent absolution of her demons and the threat of Dracula still walking the earth. All the while, I want to explore their relationship and how it could evolve further.   
> All of you who have liked, commented or even simply read this story so far – I thank you from my heart and hope dearly that you’ll stick with me and continue to find enjoyment in this story and follow me along! : )


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